Unsung Man, Unsung Hero
by Book 'em Again
Summary: Struggling to find meaning in a POW's life, James Kinchloe is nevertheless determined to escape and prove to the world that he is a man worthy of dignity and respect. However, when his plans go awry, an offer from a certain colonel changes everything.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Forgettable**

_November 1942_

So this was how a life ended.

Kneeling in the desert sand, his parachute lying behind him, Staff Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe slowly raised his hands in surrender as he stared at the barrel of a rifle held steady by a young German soldier.

Willing himself to remain still, he tried to appear nonthreatening in the hopes that the soldier would simply take him captive. He was a member of the United States Army Air Forces which meant that he should be protected under the Geneva Convention, but the look of hatred in his captor's eyes didn't bode well for his chances.

Each second felt like an hour as Kinchloe waited to die with a mind full of regrets. For if at that moment, if someone had asked him to recount the story of his life he would be able to sum it in a single word: forgettable.

* * *

_Spring_ _1930_

Trying his best to sit up straight and look presentable, James waited nervously as his high school guidance counselor, Mr. Green, looked over his proposed schedule for next year. The white man was dressed in a grey suit, looking every inch like the authoritarian figure he was known around the school for being.

Furrowing his brow, Mr. Green looked at James with a critical eye. "French?"

"Yes, sir," James said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

"Why French, Master Kinchloe?

"I need a foreign language if I want to get into college."

"You have good grades for someone of your background but college is a hard path," Green stated.

"I know, sir, but I can do it."

Mr. Green sighed. "Have any members of your family attended college?"

James shook his head. "No, sir."

"Have any members of your family graduated from High School?"

Too embarrassed to meet his counselor's gaze, James looked down at his feet. "No."

Mr. Green looked kindly upon his young charge, "You're hard worker, James, but you need to start thinking realistically about a career path. We wouldn't want you to get in over your head and drop out like your brother did, would we? Not when you can start preparing now to attend trade school to become a metal worker or an electrician and contribute to society."

Not knowing what to say, James remained silent and watched as Mr. Green crossed out French on his form and instead signed him up for shop class.

Determined to keep his disappointment to himself, he returned to class and sat in the back, talking to no one as he didn't really fit in at his high school. Most of the students were white and, on the good days, they pretended that he didn't exist. Though, when he stole a glance at Carol Dukes, who was laughing at some boy who was flirting with her, he was reminded that he didn't get along much better with his own people. The son of a factory worker didn't belong in the same circles as those whose parents were merchants or professionals.

A conversation from the front of the classroom caught his attention as he listened to classmates talk about their schedules. It didn't take long for what James heard to make his blood boil; Mark Miller was signed up for French! He was smarter than Mark! He got better grades then Mark in every class! But Mark was white and he was colored and James doubted that Mr. Green would ever tell Mark that college was unrealistic.

Mad at the school and mad that there was nothing he could do about it, James barely paid attention to what his teachers were saying. When the final bell rang, he was glad to get out of the school and out of the white neighborhoods and return to his section of town.

Back in the familiar and friendly streets of Black Bottom, James slowed his pace and debated his next step. He wasn't ready to go home – to the townhouse he lived in with his parents, brother, sister and grandfather – and face their questions about school and admit his failure.

Sighing, he kicked at the ground and was surprised when his kick sent a small object skittering down the sidewalk. Curious, he hurried after it and was rewarded when he leaned over and picked up a quarter!

For the first time that day, he smiled.

He turned the quarter over in his hands as he thought about the things he could buy. Part of him knew that he should give it to his mother. Money was tight at home and there were rumors that the factory where his pa and brother worked would start laying off workers. If that was true it could be a long time before he got another quarter to spend as he wished.

Quickly, before he could change his mind, he hurried towards Hastings Street and Mr. Johnson's bookstore.

Mr. Johnson was James' favorite adult and not just because he let James read the books in his store whenever he wanted. Mr. Johnson had been born a slave and had secretly taught himself to read. He was still a boy when the war ended and his family moved to Detroit. Years of hard work resulted in this store. He told James a couple of years ago that he didn't sell books for the money but to share his love of reading. It was for that reason that the children of the neighborhood were always welcome to come and read even if they couldn't afford to buy anything.

When James walked into store a bell twinkled and he looked around the shelves full of books. Mr. Johnson was at the counter with a customer so James spent a couple of minutes just searching the stacks.

"What are you looking for, son?" a kind voice asked from behind him.

James turned and saw the weathered and wrinkled face of the friendly storeowner smiling at him. "A French grammar."

Mr. Johnson didn't blink an eye at the odd request. "I think I might have something. Why the interest in French?"

James briefly debated his answer but he decided if there was anyone who deserved the truth it was Mr. Johnson. Besides, something told the young man that the elder man would understand.

He was right. For, after he recounted his experience with the guidance counselor, Mr. Johnson disappeared for a couple minutes and then returned with three books in his hands. One was the grammar he asked for and the other two looked like children stories. James' heart beat fast; the books were perfect but he that doubted he could afford all three. "How much?"

"What do you have?" Mr. Johnson seemed to guess James' predicament.

James held out the quarter which the shopkeeper took with a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Johnson!" James declared as he clutched his precious books to his chest.

The elderly man wished him luck as he sent him on his way, telling him that when he was able to read those stories he could trade them for more difficult books.

Racing home, James briefly greeted his mother and grandfather before disappearing into the room he shared with his older brother. Pulling out the French grammar, he turned to the first page and began to read: _ah, bay, say, day…_

Months and years passed and James' knowledge of French grew by leaps and bounds until he was able to read any book Mr. Johnson found for him. However, in the end he couldn't help but think that it was all for naught, for when he graduated, he went to trade school and studied electronics just like his guidance counselor had predicted.

* * *

_Winter 1935_

A young man sat at the kitchen table fiddling with the controls of a ham radio. James had gotten the once broken radio from his trade school's lab. His professor told him it wasn't worth saving and had let him take it home. It had taken him a month to fix the parts he could and scrounge up replacements for the parts he couldn't but it had been worth it. Now when he flipped the switch and adjusted the dials, he received a station in Pittsburgh loud and clear.

Excited and knowing that with the right conditions, ham radios could pick up signals from anywhere in the world, James consulted a sheet of frequencies and tested that theory as he first listened to a station in London and then Paris.

The rapid pace with which the French spoke shocked him. He had considered himself pretty good with the language – so much so that in the past year he had started teaching himself German in order to have a new challenge. But after a couple minutes of listening, he learned that there was a huge difference between being able to read a language and being able to speak it and understand it spoken.

Changing the radio to pick up a station in Berlin, he again was only able to understand a couple of words. Smiling, he decided that he had a good excuse to now spend lots of time with his new toy and spend the time he did.

Whenever he could, James listened to stations in Europe and the more he listened the more French and German he understood. Yet, as he played with his radio he couldn't help but be nagged by a growing sense that while he listened the world was passing him by.

Especially as he grew more concerned by words he heard coming out of Berlin.

* * *

_July 1940_

"Kinchloe! Where are you, you lazy sot?"

James hurried to shove the book he had been reading into his back pocket. The last thing he needed was for his supervisor to label him a traitor for reading a German book, not that his supervisor needed any excuse to make trouble for him. With Depression seeming to have no end and jobs scarce, his supervisor was a man who relished his ability to lord his authority over his men because in this economy who could afford to quit? There were no other jobs to be had. No, James did not need to give the man any more ammo to use even if he hadn't been doing anything wrong. As the night technician at the phone company, his job consisted mostly of sitting around waiting for problems to happen and then rushing to fix them as fast as possible.

Finding his supervisor, the man led him to the issue and James quickly examined the machinery to discover the source of the problem. Luckily, it was minor, just a couple of frayed wires that needed replacing.

"Well, boy?" his supervisor asked.

Shrugging off the insult, James quickly examined the rest of the problem before replying, "It'll be fixed in ten minutes, sir."

The supervisor wandered off leaving James to work in relative peace. His job was a thankless one and, even though he was good at it, he found no joy in it. However, he couldn't leave; he was the only member of his family with stable employment. His grandfather was too old to work, his father and brother had been fired from their factory jobs years ago and had been only been able to find odd jobs here and there. His mother and sister did laundry whenever they could find customers and his brother's new wife had lost her teaching job when she married. They all lived together in the same townhouse to save money and James' job paid the rent but money was still tight and he had learned that a thankless job was better than no job at all.

So he waited. Waited for things to change. Waited for America to enter the war that the rest of the world was engulfed in. Waited for factories to start producing once more so his family could get their jobs back. Waited for the chance to do something meaningful.

He had seen flyers advertising the Tuskegee program and he wanted badly to enlist. For war would mean the opportunity to do something memorable, to prove to the world that he was a man worthy of dignity and respect.

He just needed a chance. Was that too much to ask?

* * *

_January 1942_

"You signed up to do what?"

Looking at the six faces of those whom he loved the most, James knew that they were taken off guard by his acceptance into the Tuskegee program but the judging by the tone on his older brother's voice he had misjudged just how much of a shock his announcement would be.

"I enlisted in the Army Air Forces," James said calmly. "They are going to train me to serve as a radio operator on a bomber crew."

Matthew quickly moved from shock to anger as he lectured his younger brother, "You're a fool, James, if you think the white folk are going to let you fight."

"That's why I have to go. I will show them that we can fight."

"The whites hate us. Fighting to save their sorry hides won't change that. All you'll show them is that you can die," Matthew argued. "That you'll die for a country that doesn't give damn if you die."

"That's enough," the booming voice of their father ordered. "James has made his decision."

"Thank you, Pa," James responded quietly.

James' father turned to look at his younger son. "I didn't say I agree with the choice. Matthew's not wrong. You probably aren't going to change any minds but if you want to go I won't stop you."

While it wasn't a blessing, his father's tacit permission would have to suffice.

James' baby sister rose from her seat as she stared down the rest of the family. In that moment, James was reminded that in the past couple years she had grown from a shy little girl to a confident young woman. That confidence was on full display as Abigail defended her brother. "Who says James won't make a difference? Sitting around here and complaining about our lot won't change nothing. At least James is willing to fight."

"Easy for you to say," Matthew shot back.

"I'd fight if I could!"

Shaking his head in disgust, Matthew stormed out of the room. Eliza watched her husband leave before addressing her brother-law, "I think you're a fool but make sure you're a live fool and you come back." Then without another word she followed her husband.

Looking over to where his mother and grandfather sat quietly throughout the whole conversation, James could see the worry etched in his mother's face. "It will be okay, Ma."

Tears glistening in her eyes, his mother rose and cupped James' face in her hands. She kissed her son's cheeks and then said, "If you feel that you must do this then go. Just know that you go with my love."

"I know, Ma."

Slowing backing away, his mother grabbed Abigail by her elbow and steered her out of the room. After receiving a pointed look from his wife, his father left as well.

"Humph, you really threw us a curve ball there."

Sitting down on the couch next to his grandfather, James asked, "Do you think I made a mistake?"

The Kinchloe patriarch seemed to ignore the question as he instead told a story. "I remember when my father told me he had enlisted in the Union army. He was going to go fight to ensure that I grew up free. I was so proud of him. I thought he was a hero. Then I remember my mother having to beg to find work because my father had no pay to send home. You see the government decided to pay all Negro soldiers seven dollars a month even though the lowest ranked white soldier earned fourteen dollars. Your great-grandfather's whole regiment refused to accept any pay unless it was same as what white soldiers got. There were times I went days without eating because Pa wasn't sending money home. Ma and I could have died because of Pa's decision to fight."

Turning so to look directly into his grandson's eyes, the elderly man inquired, "Did my father make a mistake?"

James had heard this story before and he knew how it ended. Several regiments of colored soldiers refused pay for eighteen whole months until Washington passed a law granting all soldiers equal pay. He had admired his great-grandfather and his fight for equality had influenced James's own decision to enlist. However, he never heard the story of just how much the great-grandfather's choice to fight had cost his family.

"You were named for my father, James. This thing you want to do, it won't be easy. Fighting is easy but standing up for your rights as a man while fighting takes sacrifice. Before you leave, ask yourself just what you are willing to sacrifice."

"I'll give my life for our people to be free."

Sorrow flickered in the old man's eyes as he said, "James, your life may be the easiest thing you will be asked to sacrifice before this war is over."

* * *

_Present_

As a German soldier pushed him roughly into the back of a truck with several other prisoners, Kinchloe couldn't help but be disoriented by the whole situation.

His captor hadn't killed him. His crewmates most likely were dead. He was alive. He should be dead.

What would happen to him now?

Would he be taken to a prisoner of war camp to spend the rest of war powerless to do anything but wait for its end? Would he be killed for being an enemy or for being a Negro or both? Did it matter?

To his family, to his friends, to himself it mattered that he lived but he quickly came to the realization that neither option would change the fact that his military career was a total failure. Shot down and taken prisoner before his plane had dropped a single bomb, he had just had one of the shortest and most forgettable military careers of all time.

What a fool he had been to think that he could save the world when couldn't even save himself.

* * *

Author's Note:

The Tuskegee Institute trained men for the 99th pursuit squadron, 337th fighter group and the 477th bombardment group. The 99th pursuit squadron saw duty in North Africa campaign in July '43 as they assisted in the invasion of Sicily and were later joined by the 337th fighter group. The 477th bombardment group was activated in late '44 but were stationed stateside and never saw combat. During the war thirty-three Tuskegee Airmen were captured and became POWs.

Obviously, this creates a bit a dilemma as Kinch is an enlisted man and so would have been part of a bomber crew which means, historically, he would have never served in combat during WWII. So I'm asking you, my readers, for the purpose of this story to imagine that the all the Tuskegee Airmen, including the 477th, were permitted to join the fight in North Africa with their white comrades in November of '42.

Moreover, it is impossible for Kinch to have been drafted as one episode states. The application process for the Tuskegee Airmen was very rigorous as the military wanted to ensure that the men they selected had 'sufficient intelligence.' Kinch would have had to apply in order to earn the right to fly.

Also, the story Kinch's grandfather told about several black regiments refusing to accept unequal pay while they were fighting in the Union army during the American Civil War is true.

On segregation:

In the south segregation was de jure, that is by law. However, since Kinch lived in Detroit he would have grown up with de facto segregation. For, in the north, it was cultural and social norms (imposed by the white majority) that caused the segregation as blacks and whites lived in separate neighborhoods and shopped at their own businesses, etc.

In 1869 the Michigan Supreme Court ruled that segregated public schools were unconstitutional. This means that there were black students attending school with white students in Detroit in this time period. Though, from what I read, there were policies put in place to limit their number and ensure that no white students ever attended a majority black school.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: An Uneasy Welcome**

The jarring movements of the truck as it bounced down a German road forced James Kinchloe to hold tightly onto the edge of his bench so not to go flying into his fellow prisoners, or worse, the two guards with rifles who were guarding them.

The weeks since his capture had been filled with a mixture of fear, uncertainty and loneliness. The death he had expected had never come as he had been processed with the other prisoners and sent from North Africa to a Luftdulag in Germany. His days in the interrogation center where ones he hoped to forget. He hadn't been ill-treated but the weeks in solitary confinement did things to a man's mind. Thankfully, he had been able to act unintelligent and his interrogators, convinced of the inferiority of his race, had fallen for it.

Time had passed since his capture but he wasn't sure how much. He knew that he had missed Christmas for the guards at the Dulag hadn't hidden their Christmas celebrations from their captives. That day had been the hardest of them all as he had tried not to think of how hard it must be for his family to celebrate Christmas without knowing if he was alive or dead. He had failed miserably.

A gust of wind brought his thoughts back to the present. The air was bitter cold and his uniform which had been comfortable in the desserts of North Africa was already proving to be inadequate for the German winter.

"Do you have any idea where we are going?" the young soldier sitting beside him on the bench whispered.

Kinchloe looked over Sergeant Timothy Leonard and shrugged. He didn't dare tell the truth which would mean admitting that he was fluent in German. Near the beginning of their trip, he had overheard the driver tell one of guards that they heading towards a Luftstalag on the outskirts of Hammelburg. Not that hearing that information had done any good; Kinchloe's knowledge of German geography was poor at best.

"Doesn't matter," the third and final prisoner, Sergeant Luke Washington, said. "We aren't going anywhere where we will be welcome. I can promise you that."

"Schweigt!" barked one of the guards.

One didn't have to understand German to understand that their guards didn't like them talking so the prisoners ceased their conversation and returned to their thoughts.

Kinchloe tried not to be jaded by Washington's words but the man had a point. There was a reason the military was segregated. The three of them had trained together at Tuskegee but had served in different bomber crews. So while he was acquainted with both men they hadn't been close.

_They would have to be close now_, Kinchloe mused.

The truck jerked as it came to a stop. Their guards jumped to the ground which allowed Kinchloe a view of small wooden structures and barbed wire in the distance.

"Raus! Raus!" the soldiers barked as they gestured for their prisoners to exit the truck.

As the closest to the exit, Kinchloe jumped to the ground, carefully keeping his hands in the air as he moved to the spot where the soldier pointed.

A small crowd braved the cold weather to watch and as Kinchloe scanned their faces he saw mostly looks of shock intermixed with some open expressions of hatred. The one exception was a man in an RAF uniform who simply looked disinterested in the whole proceedings as he stood apart from his fellow prisoners.

Once the three of them were out of truck, their guards were greeted by a large sergeant. Kinchloe barely paid attention to the transfer as he instead studied his new home. There were rows of wooden barracks that appeared to provide little protection from the fierce German winters. A ring of barbed wire surrounded the camp as guards watched from the towers or on foot as they patrolled with German shepherds around the perimeter.

It was a dreary, bleak and depressing place filled with people who clearly did not want him there.

This was going to be a long war.

* * *

Colonel Wilhelm Klink did not like surprises. He especially did not like surprises that upset the delicate balance of his Stalag. Therefore, the sight of three Negro soldiers standing at attention in his office definitely qualified as a very unwelcome surprise.

Klink had never met a Negro before today but he had heard that they were dangerous brutes and he shuddered to think of the problems having these men in camp would cause. It was time-consuming work keeping all the prisoners in line, insuring that there were no escapes, and the last thing he needed was another headache to deal with.

Why did Berlin send him all the difficult prisoners? It was not fair Klink decided; none of the other Stalags had anywhere near the number of problems that he had to deal with on daily basis.

However, orders were orders and Klink was good at following orders.

Standing at full height, Klink squared his shoulders as he inspected the new prisoners, grasping his swagger cane tightly in his left hand. It was important that they understood that he was in charge so that they would respect his authority. He could not afford to let the men see how intimidated he felt in their presence.

Looking at the tallest of the incoming prisoners, Klink asked, "You are?"

The man looked straight ahead as he stated, "Staff Sergeant James Kinchloe. Serial number: 16249153."

Klink asked the same question of sergeants Leonard and Washington before launching into the interrogation. That endeavor was short-lived as his attempts to learn the location of their airbase or the makeup of their units failed as the men simply stood there in stony silence.

As the silence stretched on Klink became aware of the lack of a certain presence. While Anderson was not an officer, the sergeant major was the ranking prisoner and he normally took that role seriously which included being present at all processing of incoming prisoners. Even though many of the things his charges did confused the colonel it was not difficult for Klink to guess the reasoning behind Anderson's absence.

Blast! He had known that these prisoners were going to be trouble.

Turning to face his sergeant of the guard, Klink ordered, "Schultz! Bring me Sgt. Anderson."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

An awkward couple of minutes passed but, for once, Schultz showed that he was able to be efficient and Anderson was escorted into the room.

Eager to pass his troubles onto the lap of another, Klink wasted no time in beginning introductions. "Sergeant Major Anderson this is Sergeant Washington, Sergeant Leonard and Staff Sergeant Kinchloe."

Anderson didn't even look at his new charges. "Give the Coloreds their own barracks and keep them away from us."

Klink furrowed his brow; he didn't like the idea of segregating his prisoners. He had been very intentional about placing men of different nationalities together. He figured that would make it more difficult for men in any one barracks to work together to plan escapes. Separating a certain group of men would be asking for trouble. "I do not think so, Sergeant. I will not waste resources by giving three men a barracks to themselves. They will bunk with the other men. If your country lets these men fight then you will have to live with them until your country surrenders."

Klink couldn't help but feel smug at his decision but that feeling was quickly ruined by the unease he felt at how the incoming prisoners had stood at attention the whole time as if they were oblivious to the conversation happening around them. No wonder the Führer taught that Negros were of lesser intelligence.

Anderson, however, looked furious but which only confirmed to Klink that his decision was the right one. Now that he had put Anderson in his place, Klink turned his attention to his new charges.

"Men, for you the war is over. I suggest that you make yourselves comfortable as Stalag Thirteen will be your home until the Third Reich achieves her inevitable victory. Know that I run an efficient camp and tolerate no troublemakers. Any attempts at escape will be dealt with swiftly and the guilty party severally punished."

Klink was unable to keep the smugness out of his voice as he concluded, "Dismissed!"

As the new prisoners were escorted out of the office, Klink allowed himself to feel some pride over how he had handled that difficult situation. Perhaps that was the problem. Maybe, if he wasn't so good at his job then his superiors wouldn't keep sending him all the troublesome prisoners.

Deciding that was the answer, Klink sat back down at his desk and returned to the never-ending task of paperwork.

* * *

Kinchloe's introduction to the delousing shed was not one to write home about, nor for that matter was his introduction to his barracks' mates. After leaving Klink's office, the three prisoners were escorted to the delousing shed and told to clean up. After that ordeal was finished they were split up and Kinchloe found himself assigned to Barracks Two which also happened to the home of the very unhappy Sergeant Major Anderson.

Anderson seemed resigned to the situation and after introducing Kinchloe assigned him to the bunk opposite his private quarters. At first glance, it looked like he received prime location as the bunk was separate from the rest which would give him a little quieter sleep but Kinchloe was no fool. By giving him a bunk alone in its corner, Anderson was sending him an unspoken message that he was going to be expected to stay away from the rest of the men.

In that moment, Kinchloe realized the Colonel Klink was wrong. The war was not over – not for him – it had just moved to a different battlefield.

Looking at the rest of prisoners, Kinchloe tried to remember Anderson's hastily given introductions. Aside from Anderson and himself there were two other Americans: Sergeants Olsen and Brown. In addition, there were three members of the Royal Air Force present: two sergeants and corporal whose names he had already forgotten. Anderson mentioned a fourth RAF occupant a Sergeant Clayworth who was out of the barracks at the moment. The final occupant of their hut was to Kinchloe's surprise a corporal from the Free French forces.

Yet as Kinchloe studied his fellow prisoners he didn't fail to notice that the nine men only filled a little more than of half of the available beds. That was a depressing thought as Kinchloe realized that the Germans expected the war to last long enough for all those empty beds to be filled.

Conceding that no one was going to strike up a friendly conversation, Kinchloe climbed up to the top bunk. He had an exhausting experience and if no one was going to bother him he might as well catch up on missed sleep,

That plan, however, was interrupted as a man who Kinchloe figured was the absent Sergeant Clayworth stormed into the room. "Newkirk!"

It was the English corporal who responded nonchalantly as he shuffled a deck of cards. "Present."

The RAF sergeant didn't look happy. "One of the guards has informed me that they are missing a bottle of schnapps from the guard's mess. He is demanding that it be returned or we will all be in trouble."

Newkirk shrugged as if to say it wasn't me while Clayworth walked straight over to Newkirk's locker, kicked it open and grabbed the bottle from where it was resting right on top.

The accused man failed to even look apologetic. "What can I say? It was sitting out and I couldn't resist."

Clayworth growled, "You won't have been tempted if you hadn't been where you don't belong in the first place."

Before Newkirk could reply, Anderson walked out of his quarters. "What is going on here?"

Clayworth reply was to hold up the schnapps and tilt his head toward his fellow countryman.

Anderson sighed. "Again?"

"I'm sorry, Sarge. It's just the krauts make it too easy."

"Newkirk, we all appreciate some of the extras you get us but I have told you to stay away from the alcohol. Now I have to discipline you or the krauts will."

Newkirk shrugged as if he was expecting as much.

Anderson paused for a moment to think before saying, "Your duty for the next couple days is to orient the three new prisoners. You can start by giving them the grand tour."

"I will do so as soon as I finish up this game."

"You will do so now, Corporal."

Newkirk laid down his hand and gestured for Kinchloe to come. But on the way out the door, Kinchloe noticed Newkirk brush up against the French corporal. In that moment, a small bundle changed hands as the American heard the Englishman whisper, "See the trouble I get in for you."

Looking closer, Kinchloe thought he saw a potato poking out from underneath the cloth. So Newkirk was stealing more than just schnapps. Kinchloe suspected that the corporal must have stolen the liquor knowing that its absence would be noticed and make the guards forget about the missing food.

Was the food situation that bad that Newkirk had to steal in order for them to have enough to eat?

Or was something else going on here?

Either way, it looked like Kinchloe was going to have plenty of time to figure it out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: When Allies Speak Harshly and Enemies Speak Kindly**

The air was cold and the snow crunched with every step Kinchloe took but these walks around the compound were the only time that he could be alone and think and not worry if his actions would cause some real or imagined offense.

He had been in Stalag Thirteen a couple of weeks and his impression of the place had not improved. He had quickly learned that it was best to stay out of the other prisoners' way, a difficult task when he was forced to spend most of his day in close proximity with eight other men.

So whenever the Germans allowed them out of the barracks, Kinchloe walked. While it was cold, the weather was no different than what he was used to in Detroit, although if he had ever walked in the snow dressed as he was here his mother would have had his hide.

To be honest, Kinchloe realized he should be thankful that he was healthy enough to walk. Shortly after his arrival in camp, he had gotten so sick that he had spent more time in the latrine than in his bunk. And while the worst of the sickness was now over, he still didn't feel like his usual self.

Would he ever in this miserable place?

He knew that he being a downer but today was going to be one of those days where it would be impossible not to feel sorry for himself. Not when mail had arrived and his fellow POWs were busy reading the latest news from their families while he had nothing. His brain tried to tell him that it was too early to expect anything but his heart hurt to think that his family still may not know if was alive or dead.

His father and Matthew would have their work at the factory and his sister had her job at the shop which Kinchloe hoped would help distract them during the difficult days. But his mother worked at home where every nook and cranny would remind her of her missing son. At least Eliza would be with her; his sister-in-law was a gentle, caring woman who he was confident would listen to his mother's fears. And grandfather, he would be home too. The Kinchloe patriarch had waited while his father had fought in the Civil War; he would help the family wait through this war too.

Still, he would have given almost anything to hold a letter written by their hands. To know that while he currently lived in a place where he was unwelcome that there was a place in this world where he was loved. To be reminded that there was a place where he was always welcome.

With a sigh, Kinchloe trudged back to the barracks only to immediately wish that he had remained outside in the cold where it was at quiet.

Slamming the lid of his trunk shut, LeBeau turned to face those in the barracks with his hands on his hips. "Alright, which one of you took my sewing kit?"

"On me bunk," Newkirk replied.

As LeBeau grabbed his kit, he said sarcastically, "Thank you for asking."

Newkirk shrugged. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. I only borrowed it."

"Without asking first! Do I have a sign on my trunk that says, 'Newkirk, take whatever you want?'"

Annoyed, Newkirk replied flippantly, "It would have to have a lock on it for me to think that."

Kinchloe guessed that was exactly the wrong answer for Newkirk to give because LeBeau's temper snapped. "You are nothing but an inconsiderate, pilfering English cheat!"

"Well, you're incapable of being anything other than a short-tempered, loudmouthed prat!"

Switching to French, LeBeau answered with a fast tirade that was full of what Kinchloe suspected were the equivalent of four letters in English but the vocabulary was beyond his abilities.

"Well whatever you said to you too!"

"I know we're in the middle of a war but can we have a little peace!" a frustrated Sergeant Bennett cried.

Newkirk faced his fellow countryman and demanded, "How am I supposed to make peace when he starts with that nonsense?"

LeBeau rambled on and this time Kinchloe was able to understand most of what the corporal was saying. Believing that things were only going to get worse, the American Sergeant decided to speak up. "He says French isn't nonsense and asks how you would feel if you never had anyone to speak English with."

The whole barracks immediately looked at Kinchloe, their faces all showing varying degrees of shock but none was more surprised than LeBeau. _"You speak French!" _he cried out in his own tongue.

"_Read mostly_," Kinchloe confessed. _"I have not had many opportunities to practice speaking."_

"_I can hear that; your pronunciation needs work but I can teach you."_ LeBeau's face lit up at the prospect.

"_Why not? It is not like we do not have the time. But first you need to talk to your friend."_

"_He is not my friend."_

"_Then why does he steal food for you?"_

LeBeau shot Kinchloe a dirty look and for a moment the sergeant feared that he had overstepped his bounds.

"Quiet down!" Clayworth hollered as he rose from his bunk. "I have had enough of this bickering. And you…" the irate POW turned toward Kinchloe. "Just because you outrank them doesn't give you the right to order them around."

"He didn't…" LeBeau began.

"I'm not talking to you, Corporal," Clayworth snapped. The Englishman then turned his attention back to Kinchloe "Do you hear me?"

Kinchloe walked toward his bunk. He didn't have to take orders from Clayworth.

Brown moved to block his path. "You will answer when your betters speak, boy."

Kinchloe gritted his teeth. He outranked everyone in this barracks except Anderson but he was no fool. He knew that everyone expected him to defer to the white soldiers. His race mattered more than his rank. "I hear you, Sarge. It won't happen again."

* * *

"Kinchloe, do want to play a hand?"

Kinchloe looked up skeptically from the novel he was reading at the RAF corporal who was sitting at the table shuffling a deck of cards in his hands. Was the man serious?

Looking around, Kinchloe double-checked that he and Newkirk were the only prisoners currently in the barracks. Clayworth and Brown would be sure to say something if they found out he had accepted Newkirk's offer.

Suddenly, Kinchloe felt ashamed. He had lived here too and he had every right to that table and if he didn't start standing up for his rights then his fellow prisoners would continue to feel free to push him around for the rest of the war.

Jumping down to ground, Kinchloe replied, "Sure. But I don't have anything to bet."

Newkirk grinned. "No problem. Just a friendly game."

Kinchloe sat down at the table as Newkirk dealt. They played the first hand in silence and the American won easily. When he studied his next hand, Newkirk opened the conversation. "Look, yesterday with LeBeau. We didn't mean anything by it."

"I guessed you two were close," Kinchloe said.

Newkirk chuckled. "You can say that. He gets on your nerves, but you won't find a better mate in this camp."

Not knowing how to respond to that, the sergeant changed the subject. "You been here long?"

"Since the camp opened six months ago. Was at a couple of other camps before that."

"You were shot down early."

"Wasn't shot down. I was a mechanic who never made it out of Dunkirk."

Kinchloe privately whistled. No wonder Newkirk seemed so bitter at times; he'd been a prisoner from almost the beginning of the war. After exchanging two cards, he asked, "Ever think of escaping?"

"Who doesn't? I managed to get outside the wire a couple times. That's the easy part. The hard part is getting out of Germany. Don't know where to go."

Newkirk tried to give off an air of a man who didn't care but Kinchloe knew it was just an act. The English corporal would try again. He wasn't a man who would simply accept his imprisonment.

However, if Newkirk had trouble staying hidden after escaping camp what did that mean for Kinchloe's chances? One look at him and it would be clear that he was an escaped prisoner.

"Lay down your cards," Newkirk said as he showed a pair of kings.

Kinchloe grinned as played a full house. "I win this hand."

"Good thing this is just a friendly game."

Kinchloe studied his opponent. He had a nagging suspicion that the corporal's skill with cards was greater than his was letting on. Oh well, he let the Englander think he had him fooled.

As Newkirk shuffled, the door to the barracks opened and several POWs walked into the room. Newkirk dealt the next hand without a word but as Kinchloe picked up the cards he tensed up, unsure of how his barrack mates would respond to his presence on their 'side' of the hut.

Brown didn't disappoint. "Who let the trash sit at our table?"

Newkirk jumped to his feet. "Why you…" He was cut off by his countrymen O'Brien and Bennett grabbing his arms and pulling him to the side.

"This isn't our fight," Bennett hissed in Newkirk ear.

If Newkirk had a response, Kinchloe didn't hear it as at that moment Clayworth grabbed him by the collar and threw him off the bench and onto the floor.

Pushing down his rage, Kinchloe slowly rose to his feet and looked his tormenters in the eye. If this came to fists, he had no doubt that he could take Clayworth and Brown easy. His boxing days weren't that far behind him. However, he couldn't count on the rest of the barracks staying out of the fight and in a fight between white and colored, the colored man would always be seen as being in the wrong.

Clayworth's eyes promised nothing but hell as he yelled, "Are you deaf, nigger? I thought we told you to stay on your side of the barracks."

Kinchloe kept his mouth shut. There was no defense he could make that would defuse the situation and he was too proud to apologize for refusing to submit.

"That's enough!" Anderson ordered.

For a second Kinchloe dared hope that Anderson was coming to his defense but that second quickly passed. "Kinchloe, I want to see in my office now."

Closing the door behind, Kinchloe prepared himself to face an angry Anderson.

"What did you do?" the sergeant major demanded.

Kinchloe bristled. As he suspected, Anderson assumed that he had done something to provoke Clayworth and Brown.

Determined not to be intimidated, Kinchloe stated, "Newkirk invited me to play a round of poker. We were sitting at the table when the others returned."

Anderson seemed to accept that answer, as he murmured to himself, "That fool of a kraut. This is why I suggested your people be given your own barracks."

Surprised at his superior's bluntness, Kinchloe dared a response. "I doubt you'll be able to change his mind, Sarge."

"I wish I could. You survived getting shot down. You deserve to survive this place."

Surprise turned to shock as Kinchloe hadn't realized that Anderson cared about what happened to him. However, that shock quickly disappeared as the Sergeant Major made it clear he had no intention of holding the others responsible, when he continued, "But if I reprimand the others it will only make things worse for you."

Looking directly at his charge, Anderson ordered, "Keep your head down and stay out of the way. If a white soldier tells you to do something, do it." Anderson's voice softened as he continued, "You're a good lad but you don't belong here. They never should have let your people fly. Understood?"

"Understood," Kinchloe replied, his voice devoid of all emotion.

Anderson dismissed him with a nod and without hesitation Kinchloe walked out of the office and then out of the barracks. The last thing he wanted to do was put up with the hateful stares of white men who were supposed to be on his side.

A bitter cold wind hit him as soon as he stepped outside but he welcomed the wind. At least the cold let him feel something other than the overwhelming anger that threatened to consume him.

But why was he angry? The prisoners here treated him the same way he had been treated all of his life. Had he really been that idealistic fool who had thought that wearing a uniform would make a difference?

His brother had tried to warn him.

He should have known better.

Alone in the middle of camp, Kinchloe wandered over toward the wire. It was an ugly simple thing and yet it kept him here in a camp full of allies who hated him simply because of the color of his skin.

Matthew had been right. Enlisting hadn't changed a thing. He was still the colored boy imposing his presence where it wasn't wanted or needed. And now he was stuck. Stuck in a camp with no way out.

No way out but one.

Could he do it?

Kinchloe didn't see any reason to subject himself to possibly years of this treatment. Back in Detroit he had his family and his own people to support him and give him a reason to live. He had none of that here.

Anderson had tried to appear sympathetic even as he defended segregation.

LeBeau was only excited because he spoke French.

Newkirk had spoken up but who was to say that Newkirk was even defending him? The man had already proven that he had a temper and he could have thought that he was the one who Brown was calling trash.

Clayworth and Brown openly hated him.

The rest of the men ignored him.

No, there wasn't a man in this camp who would blink an eye if he was gone tomorrow.

Before he realized it his feet had made his decision for him and they brought him right up to the kill line. If he took one more step the guards would assume that he was an escaping prisoner and he would be shot.

He could end it all right now.

"Halt!" a loud voice boomed.

Out of at the corner of the eye, Kinchloe saw the sergeant-of the-guard hurry towards him. Schultz was breathing heavily as he moved to stand beside the prisoner. "What are you doing?"

Kinchloe ignored the large guard and kept looking at the wire and the guards in the towers who were preparing to shoot. It would be so easy to end it all now. No one in this camp wanted him here or would miss him if he was gone.

All it would take was one step.

Schultz, however, was fed up with the prisoner's silence and forcibly pulled him away from the fence. The German's eyes were full of hurt as declared, "Do you think we want to kill?"

A wave of guilt hit Kinchloe. He had been so busy thinking of his own pain that he had forgotten that the guards were human too. Was he really the type of man who would force another person to take his life?

"Sorry, Sergeant," he murmured softly. "I guess I wasn't thinking."

"That's better," Schultz said with a grin. "It is too cold to stand outside. You should go back inside and talk with a friend."

"I don't have any friends," Kinchloe whispered.

Schultz looked shocked. "It's not good for you to have no friends. Every man needs a friend."

"No friends."

"You must give the men another chance. You could be here a long time."

Schultz looked so caring and compassionate that Kinchloe wished that he could steal some of the guard's innocence. The kindness in the guard's eyes made him wonder if the guard even noticed that he was colored.

"Okay, Schultz," he lied, "I will."

Letting Schultz lead him back to barracks, he reentered his current home. Shooting his fellow prisoners a look that said stay back, he climbed into his bunk and picked up the discarded novel. Yet, he could read no words as his mind was a thousand miles away.

That night as he lay in on his bunk sleep refused to come. What would have happened if Schultz hadn't arrived? Would he really have crossed that line? Was he really the sort of man who could take his own life?

Kinchloe wasn't sure he wanted to know the answers to those questions.

Though the one thing that he was sure of was that the kindest words he had heard since he had been shot down had come from the mouth of a German guard.

The muffled sound of feet hitting the floor broke he away from his thoughts. Moving carefully as not to let the other person know that he was awake, he lifted his head and noticed a figure standing at the foot of his bunk.

He tensed. He had chosen the top bunk in hopes of discouraging others from messing with him while he slept but he knew that it wouldn't stop the truly determined. However, the POW seemed to have no interest in him and instead cracked open the door and looked around outside.

After a few moments, the POW stepped outside and closed the door. It was too dark to see who it had been but a quick glance of the bunks told him that is was Sergeant Olsen who had decided to go for a moonlight stroll.

Kinchloe counted the minutes, waiting for the sound of the sirens but it never came. Olsen must have gotten away. _Good for him_, he thought even as Olsen's activities made him realize there was something he had forgotten.

There was more than one way out of his predicament.

He could escape and show them all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: The Last Thing Kinchloe Needed**

"Roll call! Raus! Raus!"

Schultz's voice was an unwelcome start to Kinchloe's morning. Stumbling out of bed, he forced himself to walk outside. He had finally fallen asleep in the early morning hours and his body was trying to tell him that it hadn't been enough.

So when he noticed Olsen standing in line at roll call his first thought was that he was hallucinating from the lack of sleep. He shook his head, trying to force himself to focus, and when he looked again Olsen was still standing there. Was he mad or had he dreamed Olsen sneaking out of the barracks last night?

A small voice in the back of his head reminded him that just because Olsen snuck out of the barracks it didn't mean that he had tried to escape. He could have visited another barracks or prepared things for an escape attempt to come later. Breathing a silent sigh of relief that he was not going mad, Kinchloe turned his attention back to Schultz.

"Kommandant, all present and accounted for!" Schultz announced happily.

Thankfully, the Kommandant was in no mood to give a speech as he replied, "Dismissed!"

The prisoners began to disperse when the gates opened and a truck drove into camp.

"Look!" LeBeau hollered.

Kinchloe decided to see what was going on and most of the barracks was of a similar mind. They didn't have to wait long before the truck came to a halt and the guards escorted a single prisoner off the truck.

The sight of the American wearing a brown jacket and crush cap caused murmurs to break out all through the ranks as the POWs realized what was happening.

As Kinchloe studied the new prisoner, he quickly came to the conclusion that this was going to mean both good and bad news. The good news being that Anderson was now out of a job. The bad news being that the camp now had an officer.

From experience, Kinchloe knew that the last thing he needed was a white officer. His time in the Army Air Forces had taught him that there were only two types of white officers: those who openly hated the men they were charged with supervising and those who were apathetic to the charges and simply counted the days until they would be given a better assignment.

Either way, Kinchloe was in trouble. Either the officer would make his life hell or he wouldn't care if the other prisoners in the camp made his life hell. All he could do was pray for a short war.

* * *

Colonel Robert E. Hogan of the Army Air Forces had come to the conclusion that the Kommandant of Stalag Thirteen was an idiot. Now to be fair, he had only been in the presence of the man for five minutes but those five minutes for the most part were filled with the Kommandant's fruitless attempts to interrogate him.

Hogan really didn't understand how this German officer thought that he could succeed where the professionals failed but he was stuck with no other choice than to keep repeating his name, rank and serial number until this buffoon decided to shut up.

Finally, Klink concluded their conversation by warning him about the fruitlessness of trying to escape and it took all of Hogan's willpower to hold back an audible snort when the Kommandant claimed that so far there had never been a successful escape from Stalag Thirteen.

Well, he would have to be the first. After all, the first duty of an officer was to escape and with his fluency in the German language – a fluency his captors knew nothing about – he figured he had a better chance than most at success.

Klink dismissed him with a salute which Hogan half-heartedly returned before following the sergeant of the guard to his new temporary home.

When he walked through the door to see eight men standing at attention next to their bunks, the colonel returned the salute. "At ease. I'm Colonel Robert Hogan of the 504th bomber group until I was shot down and the krauts decided to send me here."

Hogan tried to sound authentic but to him his introduction felt forced. _That's the problem with being the only officer, _Hogan thought. _It's going to be a while before the men will let their guard down around me._

An average built, sandy haired American stepped forward. "Sergeant Major George Anderson, sir. If you like, I can show you to your quarters."

As Hogan followed Anderson into the small room he could tell that it had been recently occupied. The sergeant must have been displaced by his arrival. While he felt a slight twinge of guilt, the chance to have a private space was the one perk of command that he was not giving up.

Looking at the lumpy, uncomfortable mattress, Hogan longed to crawl on top of it and sleep for the next month. However, he was aware that the men – his men he realized with a start – were watching him and he knew that he needed to make a good first impression. So he turned and walked back into the common room.

A few of the man who had sat down jumped up again and Hogan realized that for everyone's sanity he was going to have to give permission for certain military protocols to be dropped. Holding out one hand, he ordered, "Stay seated." Then after sitting down at the last spot at the table, he added, "There's no need to come to attention in the barracks or around camp. I would like to not have to return salutes all day."

Several of men nodded their approval while a short Frenchman set a mug on the table in front of him. "For you, sir."

After taking a small sip, Hogan grimaced. The coffee was horrible but as it was the first cup he had since being shot down he drank it like it was the finest cup of joe he had ever tasted.

Setting down the mug, he gestured to the man sitting beside him. "What's your name?"

He did his best to listen as for the next hour he learned that Clayworth had four brothers, Brown played linebacker in college and Bennett came from a long line of miners. He had men from the cities of London, Paris, and St. Paul and several small towns that he had never heard of.

Most of the men had been shot down over Germany though most of the Americans had been shipped to Germany from North Africa. He was informed that Stalag Thirteen had only recently opened and that about a third of the prisoners had been transferred in from other camps and that none held a high opinion of their Kommandant's ability to command. He learned that Newkirk had been a prisoner the longest, having never made it out of Dunkirk, and that LeBeau was not far behind him as he became a prisoner when the Free French tried to take control of their African colonies.

As the men talked, Hogan did his best to remember their names and at least one piece of information about each. Though it did not escape his attention that during this one man had remained silent throughout the whole conversation.

Looking over at the final occupant of the barracks who was standing off to the side, Hogan asked, "What about you, sergeant?"

"Staff Sergeant James Kinchloe, 477th."

"Where are from?"

"Detroit, sir."

The soldier was so stiff that Hogan backed off. He would have plenty of time to know of his men - though not too much time he hoped.

For Colonel Robert E. Hogan had no intentions of remaining a prisoner for long.

* * *

A relatively warm winter day and a free exercise period provided a welcome breath of fresh air to the cooped up prisoners. A volleyball match by barracks two and a cricket game on the other side of camp had both attracted a decent amount of players and spectators. However, there were three men who stood apart from the rest of the camp taking advantage of this moment to privately converse amongst themselves.

"What's he like?" Leonard asked, nodding toward their new officer who was watching the volleyball game.

Kinchloe glanced at his fellow Tuskegee Airman. "He either keeps to himself or he's mingling with the men, asking lots of questions about the camp, the Germans, us prisoners."

"You think he's planning something?"

Kinchloe shrugged. He had done his best to stay out of Hogan's way as much as possible which meant that he truly had no guesses as to what the colonel was thinking.

"Doesn't seem too happy about us," Washington stated coldly.

Kinchloe glanced over at Hogan and saw that he had turned his attention away from the game and was looking at the three of them with a frown on his face. Well, Kinchloe hated to disappoint officers but it wasn't his fault that they had been dumped in this camp. Hogan would have to come to accept that fact. Though acceptance of their presence didn't mean the man would have to treat them fairly. Would Hogan's frown be the start of him showing his true colors?

With luck Kinchloe wouldn't be in camp long enough to find out. "I'm going to go for a walk," he announced.

"You take a lot of walks," Leonard said with concern in his voice. "Are you okay?"

Not wanting to admit what he was really thinking, Kinchloe joked, "I have to get my exercise in somehow."

Leonard frowned, thinking that Kinchloe was referring to the way in which they had been informed to stay out of camp games but, before he could respond, Washington laid a single hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Let him go. Each of us has to stay sane in our own way."

* * *

In exploring his new quarters, Hogan had discovered a well-used chess set and wasted no time in challenging the room's former occupant to a match. Looking at his pieces, he didn't need to be an expert to know that he was losing and badly. Anderson was good and it didn't help that Hogan's attention was not entirely on the game as he was using the game to get to know the senior NCO a little better. For in the short time he had been at Stalag Thirteen, Hogan had recognized that Anderson was generally well liked and respected by the men. It would be a lot easier for the officer to win over the POWs if he managed to get Anderson on his side.

So while they played they chatted about the camp, the Germans and the things they had done off base while being stationed in London.

Once Hogan's inevitable defeat became official, he broached a subject that had been bothering him for a while. "How is the intermixing of nationalities working out?" The colonel hadn't failed to notice during the exercise period it had been the Brits playing cricket, the Americans playing volleyball while the Tuskegee Airmen stood off by themselves.

"Depends on who you ask. We've had a few issues but for the most part we've become resigned to it. Our Kommandant seems to think that it cuts back on escapes, hoping that our differences will make it harder for any one barracks to work together on a plan."

"Has it?" Hogan asked, eagerness slipping into his voice.

"We normally have one or two guys go through the wire a month but none have gotten away. I believe Corporal Newkirk holds the record as he managed to elude capture for four days once."

"Once?"

Anderson chuckled. "Oh, Newkirk's gotten out several times. Him and LeBeau combined, I'd say, account for about half of the attempts.

Hogan made a mental note to talk to both men as he suspected they had a pretty good idea where the weaknesses where. Though, from his studies of the wire and the guard towers, he had already identified a couple of blind spots. "What about you?"

Anderson smiled. "Not yet, sir."

"But you have something in the works," Hogan stated.

Anderson stood up. "Follow me."

Hogan followed the NCO into the main room and watched him walk up to the bunk that Clayworth used. Anderson gestured to O'Brien who immediately walked over to the door and opened it a crack.

Anderson lifted up the mattress on the bottom bunk and set it on the floor. Then he picked up the flat board underneath and placed it beside the mattress. Standing inside the bunk, Anderson knelt and pointed out a spot where the floorboard was loose and lifted that up and handed it to Hogan.

Hogan set the board down and then stepped inside the bunk to study the hole. It was just big enough for a man to slip through which explained why, even though there was room between the bunk and the floor, they had to remove the mattress. Deciding to be adventurous, Hogan lowered himself into the hole and was surprised to find himself in a small underground room.

Anderson joined him and the colonel noticed that there was room for two or three other men to fit in addition to themselves.

"We dug out the room when we realized it made it easier to transfer buckets of dirt to the surface," Anderson explained.

Looking around, Hogan noticed a few buckets piled in a corner, a pickaxe that he was curious to know where that had come from and the tunnel itself which was a small black hole just big enough for a man to crawl through.

"Who all knows about the tunnel?"

"All the men in Barracks Two except Olsen and Kinchloe. We had to stop digging when the ground froze and so they hadn't been here long enough to know about it."

Seeing Hogan's confused look, Anderson added, "The dirt down here can be dug in winter but we can't dispose of it without the guards seeing and then the game's up. Once the thaw hits, we'll have another month or two of digging until we're outside the wire."

"I'm impressed," Hogan said, his mind already whirling with possibilities. Two months seemed like a long time to finish the job as it wasn't like the camp was low in manpower. No, as Anderson said the problem was the disposing of the dirt.

There was potential here. He just needed to figure out how to make it work.

* * *

Kinchloe finished his second lap around the compound that day but still was no closer to coming up with a plan on how to escape. Even though he had identified places in the fence where he would have a better chance of going through the wire, the risk of him getting shot was high if spotted, and he would need to find something he could use to cut the wire.

Besides, he had grown up in the city. He had no idea how to walk through the woods without leaving a trail or how to survive in the wilderness on his own. However, he knew that no matter what plan he came up with he would have to go cross-country at some point. But, to have any sort of chance, he needed to put distance between him and the guards and the dogs that were sure to come after him.

There had to be a better way.

He came to halt as the noticed a black car pull in front of Klink's office. A guard stepped out and held the door open for the Kommandant who hurried outside, bundled up due to the cold weather, and quickly sat down in the driver's seat. As Klink drove off, the guards opened the gates so he didn't have to stop and could drive right on through.

The guards never even checked the car. They just opened the gate.

Kinchloe smiled; he had a plan.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: A Stormy Ride**

The day Kinchloe had been waiting for had finally arrived. He had thought through every possible angle, he had practiced and he finally felt like he had arrived at a plan that would give him the best shot at escaping. However, he couldn't put that plan into action until conditions were just right so he waited for the first rain of the year to come.

So when the rain had finally come, he let the cold water hit him as walked around the side of Barracks Six, looking to put the first part of his plan into action.

Luckily, it didn't take him long to spot the person he was looking for even though he was huddled under a roof outcropping in an attempt to stay dry instead of the patrolling the camp like he was supposed to.

"Schultz!"

"Kinchloe! What are you doing out in this weather?" the miserable-looking sergeant asked.

"Walking back to my barracks," the American lied. "I was watching the ping pong tournament in the rec hall. But what are you doing out here? I thought you served the Kommandant dinner at this time."

"But it is only four o'clock. The Kommandant does not eat for another hour."

Kinchloe looked down at his wrist. "Not according to my watch."

"What? This cannot be true." But when Kinchloe let Schultz read the face of his recently altered watch, the guard started to panic, "Oh, I am in trouble now. Klink gets so grumpy when he does not have his dinner."

"Then go," Kinchloe encouraged. "Maybe if you hurry, the Kommandant will never notice his meal is late."

As Schultz hurried off, Kinchloe couldn't help but note that the guard had left his rifle behind. The POW rolled his eyes. He liked Schultz for an enemy, nor could he ever forget that the man had saved his life, but the guard was definitely not the sharpest tool in the toolbox. Part of him felt bad for tricking Schultz in this way but it was necessary.

Once Schultz was out of sight, Kinchloe slowly made his way over to the Kommandantur while being careful to stay out of sight. As he leaned against the side of the building, he craned his head around the side and spotted the guard at the front office door.

Taking a deep breath, he summoned up his courage. This was it. This was the moment when he discovered if he really could speak German as well as he thought he could.

While remaining hidden, he barked in the most authoritarian voice he could muster, _"Soldier! Over by the kennels! One of the dogs is halfway through the wire!"_

"_I don't see anything,"_ the guard answered as he looked around, unsure of where that voice was coming from.

"_Then go check it out! Do you want to be the one Klink blames if the dogs get loose?"_

That got the guard moving and, as he hurried off, Kinchloe snuck into Klink's outer office.

That had gone a lot easier than he had ever imagined.

The room was empty as Klink's secretary had left for the day which was exactly what Kinchloe needed. Sitting down at Helga's desk, he immediately began rifling through her papers until he found what he was looking for: a list of extensions for all the phones in camp.

After finding the one he needed, he said a quick prayer and dialed the number.

"_Kommandant Klink speaking."_

"_Kommandant, this is the front gate. I beg to report that one of the guards patrolling the perimeter reported that there is someone moving suspiciously around your quarters."_

"_Then go check it out."_

"_But, Herr Kommandant. I cannot leave my post at the moment."_

Klink murmured something about having to do everything himself as he ended the call.

How Klink ever got any of the guards to do anything was a mystery to Kinchloe but he was not here to reflect on the Kommandant's leadership abilities or lack thereof so he moved and put his ear against Klink's office door.

He heard footsteps and the sound of Klink opening and closing the door to his quarters. However, he didn't need to strain in order to hear what happened next.

"Schultz!" Klink hollered. "What are you doing in my quarters?"

"Preparing your dinner, Herr Kommandant."

"Dummkopf! It is only 4:20."

"No, Herr Kommandant, it is 5:20. See, my watch is broken."

Hopeful that the two of them would be at it awhile but not willing to risk that they wouldn't, Kinchloe hurried into Klink's office and quickly grabbed the Kommandant's coat, hat, scarf and gloves from the coat stand before returning to the outer office.

His heart was racing but he forced himself to breathe normally. Now he was committed. If anyone spotted him now it would be hard to deny what he was trying to do. So that left him with only one option: keep going with the escape. But this time it wasn't just going to be enough to convince a guard that he was a native German speaker, this time he had to convince a guard that he was Klink.

Picking up the phone once again, he dialed the front gate.

"_Hello."_

"_This is your Kommandant," _Kinchloe said in his best attempt to mimic Klink's slightly whiny tone. "_I have urgent business in town. Have my staff car brought around at once!"_

"_Right away, Herr Kommandant. Your car will be ready in two minutes."_

Kinchloe ended the call, barely believing that it had worked. The guard had really believed he was Klink!

While he waited for the car to be brought around, he dressed in Klink's coat and gloves, wrapping the scarf around his face so that it covered everything below his eyes and pulling down the hat far enough so that it covered everything above his eyes. Unless anyone looked directly at his eyes they wouldn't be able to tell that he was colored.

Now it was a waiting game. Would Klink and Schultz argue long enough for him to get away or not?

Thankfully, the guards seemed to be as eager to get Klink out of camp as Kinchloe was to escape and the car was parked in front of the building within the allotted time. He hunched over in that way Klink always did, hoping that it would hide his extra height, and then opened the front door and stepped outside into the pouring rain.

The guard, who was back at his duty post outside the office, didn't give him a second glance as when he scurried over to the vehicle, sat down in the driver's seat and closed the door.

Forcing himself to act calmer than he felt, Kinchloe turned the key and started the car. Driving slowly towards the front gate, he prayed with all his might. _Open the gates. Open the gates. Please, open the gates._

Either God was listening or the guards didn't feel like getting wetter than they already were so when the car reached the exit, no one checked the car and Kinchloe was able to drive right on through the open gates without any problems.

He was free!

_Not yet, _he reminded himself. He needed to put as much distance between him and Stalag Thirteen as possible, without running into any checkpoints. Also, while the rain had given him the cover he needed to escape, it was making the roads a mess. But he didn't dare stop driving. Thirty minutes was the timeframe he had given himself. He would drive for thirty minutes and then ditch the car and then hike cross-country for Switzerland on foot.

As he drove, he removed the scarf and hat to improve his ability to see ahead and then, after turning on the heat, he unbuttoned Klink's overcoat in an attempt to get some of the wetness out of his clothes. He wouldn't make it very far if he made himself sick.

However, after fifteen minutes of driving on unfamiliar roads, the steady rain had turned into a downpour and Kinchloe was beginning to fear that escaping in the middle of a rainstorm had been a mistake. It was getting harder and harder to stay on the road and he was beginning to consider pulling over to the side to wait for the worst of the storm to pass when he felt the car start to skid as he drove around a bend.

Immediately, he tried to regain control but he panicked and did the one thing he knew he wasn't supposed to do in this situation: slam on the brakes.

The staff car responded badly and skidded further into the other lane and right into the pathway of an oncoming car.

His last thought before the cars hit was that once again he had failed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: Caught in the Act**

When Kinchloe opened his eyes the first thing he noted was that he was alive. Thankfully, due to the storm, both cars had been moving slowly enough to avoid serious injury. However, his body ached all over but things were going to get much worse if he didn't start moving – now.

But as much as he tried to convince his body to move, he was unable to do anything but sit in shock and concentrate on his breathing. He was shaking badly as he realized just how close to death he had come.

After a too-long and too-short minute, he was finally able to move as he pressed down on the door handle with his hand only to a see face appear in the opening where the driver's side window used to be.

The man was dressed in a Luftwaffe uniform and he let loose a couple of choice words in German before it registered in his mind who Kinchloe was. "You are not German!" the soldier declared as pulled out a gun and pointed directly at his enemy's face.

Slowly raising his hands, Kinchloe know he had no choice but to surrender.

"General Burkhalter!" the man called out. "This man is an American."

"What?" a large man cried as he exited his car and approached Kinchloe.

Burkhalter immediately noticed Kinchloe's dark skin, American uniform, and the German officer's overcoat he was still wearing. "Who are you?" he demanded in English.

"Staff Sergeant James Kinchloe, United States Army Air Forces. Serial number: 16249153"

"What are you doing driving a staff car?"

When he didn't answer, Burkhalter's face began to turn red. "If you do not start talking I could have you shot as a spy."

Kinchloe wanted to answer with a comment about the likelihood of him succeeding as a spy in the middle of Germany but he figured that such a response would guarantee that Burkhalter would order his man to pull the trigger.

Luckily, the general's driver posed a suggestion. "General, perhaps he escaped from one of the stalags in the area?"

It didn't take long for Burkhalter to be convinced of that suggestion as he quickly replied, "And I know exactly which one. That idiot Klink will have some explaining to do."

Then looking back at Kinchloe, the General ordered, "Raus!"

Slowly getting out of the car, Kinchloe stood still as the driver searched him and took Klink's clothing and the bag of foodstuffs from his Red Cross package that he had brought along. During the search, his now dry uniform became soaked within seconds as rain chilled him to the bone.

In an attempt to make the best of an increasingly bad situation, Kinchloe sized up his captors. Burkhalter didn't look like a threat. The fat general would not the one chasing him if he managed to run into the woods and Kinchloe figured that, if he could distract the driver long enough to put some distance between him and that gun, the man would stay with the general.

But before Kinchloe could even consider how to put his plan into action, Burkhalter barked, "Kneel!"

Kinchloe's heart leapt to his throat as obeyed and placed his hands on his head. Was this it? Would his life end as a man shot on the side of the road after failing at life once again?

"Move and you will be shot," the general stated coldly.

Kinchloe didn't even dare let out a sigh of relief. He would not be executed and he wasn't going to give the driver an excuse to shoot him. This brush with death had reminded him just how much he wanted to live.

Keeping his eyes and his gun on the prisoner, the driver asked, "What do we do now, General?"

"We wait. I have no intention of walking into town and sooner or later Klink will realize a prisoner is missing send out his guards who should find us."

The driver did not look convinced. "If you are waiting on Klink, it could take hours, sir."

"I know. Which is why I will wait in what is left of the car. You guard the prisoner."

As Burkhalter sat down in the backseat of his now-ruined staff car, the driver moved to sit in the front seat of Klink's. There he was able to protect himself from the worst of the rain and still keep his gun trained on the prisoner.

Kinchloe was offered no such protection.

* * *

Sipping from a cup of coffee, Hogan was enjoying a rare moment of quiet as he sat at the common table watching Clayworth and Anderson go head to head at chess. Clayworth was putting up a much better fight than he himself had the other day and both men were silent as they focused on their next moves. Meanwhile, the rest of the occupants of their hut were occupied with the ping pong tournament in the rec hall which provided them with a much needed break on this rainy day.

However, the quiet was all too quickly ruined by the sound of the barrack's door slamming open and the rest of the occupants of the hut entered the room.

"What happened?" Hogan asked, knowing that it was too early for the tournament to be over.

"Klink ordered us all back to the barracks for no reason," LeBeau complained.

"That ruddy kraut," Newkirk grumbled. "That man has no common decency. He didn't even notice that Jones and Leighton were in the closest, most hard-fought match of the day."

"In other words, Klink ruined his betting ring," Bennett joked.

"A man has to make money somehow especially since certain nameless individuals have refused to play poker with me," Newkirk replied with his gaze leaving no doubt that Bennett was the said individual.

Looking around the room, Hogan noticed that they were short a man. "If Klink ordered everyone back to the barrack, where's Sergeant Kinchloe?"

"Who cares?" Clayworth called out as he took Anderson's knight with his queen.

Hogan was surprised to see a couple of heads nod in agreement but before he could press the point a different thought struck him. "Wait, you said _Klink_ closed the rec hall."

"That's what we've been complaining about, mate," Newkirk quipped.

"But I saw his car leave camp," Hogan insisted.

"Maybe he came back?" LeBeau reasoned.

"I didn't see the car return."

"Someone else could have used the car," Anderson reasoned. "I fail to see what this has to do with Kinchloe."

"Maybe he escaped?" LeBeau suggested.

Anderson laughed. "Escape! Please, he's probably in one of the empty barracks with the other coloreds.

"That's a lot coming from a man who has never made it outside the wire," Newkirk countered.

"Settle down," Hogan ordered sternly. "We're all allies here remember." Then after the men quieted down he added, "It's the duty of all of us to escape so we should be helping each other, not turning this into a competition."

Admonished, Newkirk murmured, "Sorry, sir."

Before Anderson could respond with his own apology, the door to the barracks was thrown open and Schultz entered the room bringing a good deal of rain with him to the displeasure of the prisoners standing closest to the door.

The soaking wet sergeant did not look happy as he ordered the men to line up for a surprise inspection.

Immediately, Newkirk was standing beside guard acting like he had just found his long lost best friend. "Hey, Schultzie, what happened? Klink got you patrolling in the rain?"

"Don't even ask," Schultz replied with a sigh. "I am in enough trouble as it is."

Pouring a cup of coffee, LeBeau handed it to the weary solider. "Drink this. It will bring some warmth to those bones."

"Danke." Schultz said as he accepted the mug gladly and took a long drink. "That's better." Then he set the mug down and starting counting the prisoners. "Eins, zwei, drei…"

Newkirk moved quickly to pluck the now empty mug from the guard's hand and hand it over to LeBeau for a refill. "Have some more coffee. Klink is crazy to have an inspection in this weather. We are all staying dry inside and the Kommandant is dry in his quarters and he makes you guards get wet for no reason."

"After all," LeBeau added as he handed Schultz back the mug, "where else would we be?"

At first Hogan was puzzled by the two prisoners' attempts to confuse the guard until the truth hit him. _They're covering for Kinchloe._

Hogan took another sip from his cup as he said nonchalantly, "You know, they're right, Schultz. No one's crazy enough to be outside in this storm."

An unhappy Schultz groaned in agreement. "Tell that to the Kommandant."

"Who says he has to know," LeBeau suggested. "Wait with us for a while and then tell the Kommandant all prisoners are accounted for. Klink will never know the difference."

For a second Hogan thought that LeBeau's gamble was going to work but the last comment must have pushed things too far as suspicion flashed in Schultz' eyes and a quick survey around the room caused the guard to put two and two together. "Colonel Hogan, where is Sergeant Kinchloe?"

"Easy, Schultz," Hogan lied. "I'm sure he's in one of the other barracks."

Schultz shot Hogan a look of exasperation before once again braving the storm.

As soon as the door shut, O'Brien asked aloud, "Do you think he went through the wire?"

"Why not?" Newkirk challenged. "It's not that hard."

Olsen snorted as if he was in on some private joke.

Clayworth, however, rolled his eyes. "I highly doubt it."

Sensing that things were in danger of escalating quickly, Hogan again stepped in. "We'll find out soon enough." Then, as if to prove him right, the shrill of the alarm and the barking of the dogs filled the air.

A hint of admiration snuck into Anderson's voice as he declared, "I'll be darned. He escaped."

Brown spat on the ground. "That colored boy is just going to make it harder for the rest of us."

Hogan looked over at Brown, saw the hatred the man's eyes and realized that the attitudes of several men in this barracks were going to be a problem. A part of him knew that this way of thinking was common in his country but he had never really been exposed to it before. He had been raised in the North and all of the people in his neighborhood and schools were white. He joined a segregated military which meant that all the men he had commanded were also white. Sergeant Kinchloe was the first colored person he had any prolonged contact with and, to be honest, Hogan knew almost nothing about the man. He seemed to be like any other soldier just one that was shy, quiet and liked to keep to himself.

But was Kinchloe's shyness his natural state or one that he had adopted in order to deal with men like Brown?

Hogan honestly didn't know and now he might never know. But, in that moment, he decided that he hoped Kinchloe made it.

* * *

Every bone in his body ached as Kinchloe was wet, cold and tired. The sun had set and there still was seen no sign of anyone. It seemed as if the storm was keeping the populace indoors and that his absence had not been noted at camp. He didn't know whether to be happy that his follow prisoners were covering for him or upset that no one paid enough attention to realize that he was missing. Either way, roll call would happen soon and Klink would have to realize that he had escaped.

Or was that asking too much of Klink?

Kinchloe had long since lost track of how long he had been kneeling in the mud when headlights finally appeared on the road. His guard wasted no time in getting the attention of approaching vehicle.

The cavalry – well Schultz – had arrived.

"Oh, General, you found the prisoner!" Schultz cried as he jumped down from the driver's seat of his truck.

"No thanks to you, dummkopf!" Burkhalter yelled as he stormed angrily towards his rescue. "Is it your Stalag's policy to let prisoners drive off with military property?"

Schultz's eyes widened as he noticed the wrecked cars. He stammered an apology, "No, Herr General. I'm sorry, Herr General. Can I offer you a ride, Herr General?

Burkhalter didn't deem a response necessary as he climbed into the passenger seat. The general's driver gestured for Schultz to handle the prisoner before claiming the driver's seat for himself.

Kinchloe was just grateful that this ordeal was at an end as Schultz waddled over and helped him rise unsteadily to his feet; the hours of kneeling in the cold mud had stiffened his joints.

Once Schultz and the American were settled in the back, the truck started moving. Tired and weary, Kinchloe found that the swaying of the vehicle was causing him to want to curl up in a ball and go to sleep. However, sleep was not possible as Schultz wanted to talk.

"Kinchloe, you have gotten me into so much trouble," the sergeant-of-the-guard whispered. "First the Kommandant yelled at me for making dinner early. Then the Kommandant yelled at me for letting a prisoner escape. When we get back to camp and the Kommandant finds out you crashed his car, he is going to yell at me again. And into a general's car too!"

"Schultz, I'm a prisoner. I'm supposed to try and escape."

Schultz sighed. "I know but couldn't you at least have picked a day with no rain?"

Hindsight was twenty-twenty but, at that moment, Kinchloe couldn't have agreed more.

* * *

"Colonel, Schultz is back!"

Hogan swung off his bunk and walked over to the window and looked out. Bennett was right, a camp truck pulled into camp. There were two unfamiliar faces in the front seat but there was no mistaking Schultz helping the recaptured prisoner out of the back.

Without hesitating, Hogan walked out into the rain and over towards the truck. A guard looked like he was considering blocking his path but, before he could move, Hogan was standing beside the sergeant of the guard. "So, Schultz, you found Kinchloe. Guess I was wrong about him being in another barracks. You know it's so hard to keep track of everyone these days."

Schultz groaned. "This is no time for jokes. I am in big trouble. Kinchloe is in big trouble. Klink is in big trouble. And when Klink is in big trouble, I'm in even bigger trouble."

Not quite sure that he followed all of that, Hogan looked over at Kinchloe. "What happened?" he whispered.

"I crashed Klink's staff car into the general's," the staff sergeant replied in a deadpan voice.

Questions immediately danced through Hogan's mind. Like how had Kinchloe gotten his hands on the car's keys and how had he driven out of camp without anyone noticing but he figured the rest of the story would come out soon enough as Schultz directed them towards Klink's office.

The look on Klink's face when he saw Schultz lead Kinchloe and Hogan into the room was one of pure delight. However, Hogan soon took greater delight in seeing Klink's emotions switch to shock when he noticed the general joining them.

Hurrying over to greet this important guest, Klink gushed, "General Burkhalter! What a pleasant surprise to see you!"

"Klink!" Burkhalter hollered. "Sit down, shut up and listen!"

Eyes wide, Klink immediately sat back down in his chair.

"You are a prison camp kommandant. You have one job: to keep your prisoners from escaping."

"Yes, General Burkhalter. But as you see the escaped prisoner is here. Which means that no one has ever successfully escaped from Stalag Thirteen."

"Did I give you permission to talk?" Burkhalter was livid and Hogan couldn't believe that Klink didn't realize the trouble in was in.

"No, sir, I mean shutting up, sir."

"I was on my way to Dusseldorf for an important meeting when _your_ prisoner, driving _your _car, wearing _your _overcoat crashed into my car."

All the color drained from Klink's face as the reality of this situation finally hit him.

It was probably the wrong time to butt in, but if Hogan didn't do something to defuse things, Klink was going to be out of a job. While Hogan didn't have any fondness for Klink, he had already realized that if he wanted to escape, it would be a lot easier with Klink in charge. "You have to admit, Sergeant Kinchloe's escape has to get points for originality."

Schultz's jaw dropped at Hogan's boldness while Klink immediately addressed the American officer. "Colonel Hogan, this matter doesn't concern you. Return to your barracks at once."

"According to Geneva Convention, as senior POW officer, I have the right to be present at any interrogation of my men." Hogan was tired of watching from the sidelines, trying to get a feel for the situation. This was his camp and these were his men. It was past time for him to take charge.

Klink opened his mouth as if to dispute Hogan's claim and then quickly closed it as he remembered that he didn't know the law well enough to dispute it. Hogan grinned; he could work with this.

Burkhalter was at his wits end. "Enough. Klink, the actions of this prisoner are your responsibility."

"Nobody asked me," Hogan said, "but in my opinion Klink's record stands for itself. Six months as Kommandant, not a single successful escape. If Klink hadn't ordered a surprise barracks inspection and discovered a prisoner missing where would you be? I know where: still out in the rain. You could have caught a cold. Thank goodness the kommandant sent Sergeant Schultz - who's got a nose like German Shepherd – to find him.

"I do?" asked a confused Schultz.

Hogan sighed dramatically. "It's enough to make a man give up all hopes of ever escaping."

Klink had puffed up like a peacock during Hogan's speech and topped it off by declaring, "I promise you, General, there will never be a successful escape from Stalag Thirteen."

Burkhalter seemed swayed by Hogan's case – at least temporarily. "You'd better be right, Klink, because if you are wrong you will find yourself with a one way ticket to the Russian Front!"

Then Burkhalter turned and faced the cause of all this trouble. "Now, my patience has been used up so I'm going to get straight to the point. I want the names of the guards who helped you escape."

Hogan looked carefully at Kinchloe who seemed in no hurry to answer the general's question. Instead, the POW was looking at his feet.

"Who did you bribe in order to drive that car out of camp?" Burkhalter pressed.

"I didn't bribe any guards, sir," Kinchloe replied quickly.

"Impossible," Burkhalter said. "Give the name of the traitor and we will reduce your punishment."

"We have ways of making you talk," an eager Klink added.

"Klink! Leave the threats to the professionals."

"Kinchloe doesn't have to tell you anything other than name, rank and serial number," Hogan reminded the krauts, unhelpfully he was sure.

"I do not have time for this. Klink, finding the guilty guards is your responsibility. You will lend me the use of a camp vehicle."

There was no mistaking the order in that tone of voice.

"Of course, General." The Kommandant quickly picked up the phone and ordered his guards to bring a car for General Burkhalter and his man.

Once the general was out of the office, Klink looked like he needed a drink. Deciding that he would continue the interrogation later, he ordered, "Kinchloe, you are sentenced to thirty days in the cooler. Schultz, get these prisoners out of here."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

Then without a further word the prisoners were led out of the office, leaving Hogan to wonder if he had really just acted to save an enemy soldier. And not just any enemy! He just saved the career of the man who kept him imprisoned here. It galled a little, even though he had saved Klink for his own future benefit. Besides, it wasn't like this would become a habit. For the next time Klink would be in trouble, Hogan hoped to be halfway to England and nothing would save the kraut then.

Soon, Hogan promised himself. His time would come soon.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: Secrets Hidden, Secrets Revealed**

There was a sense of finality in the closing of a cell door.

It was over. He had failed to escape.

Shivering, Kinchloe looked around his home for the next thirty days. A slab of concrete would serve as his bunk, though he guessed he was lucky that his cell contained a small table with a single chair against the far wall. The cell bars allowed him a view of the rest of the cooler – alas, a view that was no more interesting than his cell.

Settling into the chair, Kinchloe debated what to do with his soaking wet clothes. Their dampness was making him cold but he didn't dare remove them – not when the guards could return at any moment. And, even though his aching body wanted nothing more than to sleep, he knew that going to sleep in wet clothing would only make him sick.

Curse that general. Of all the people he crashed into – he had to crash into the man who appeared to be Klink's boss.

_It could have been worse_, a voice in the back of his mind said. He could have hit a German who would have shot him on sight or the Gestapo or he could have killed an innocent civilian or himself.

He was lucky to be alive except that he didn't feel particularly lucky.

Out of all the ways for his escape to have gone wrong, the last thing he would have guessed was the way he was caught. It was bad luck that he had crashed that car and worse luck considering who he had crashed it into.

It just seemed like he was forever destined to fail at whatever he tried.

The sound of a heated conversation broke him from his thoughts. Walking over the bars of his cell, he watched as the door to the cooler opened and a nervous Sergeant Schultz let Colonel Hogan enter the room.

Hogan waved Schultz away and approached his cell – alone. "I only have a minute but I brought you some dry clothes."

Surprised that Hogan thought of him, Kinchloe said softly, "Thank you, sir."

Studying the man in front of him, Hogan continued, "So how did you manage to get the car?"

Kinchloe shrugged. "I just did it, sir." He held his breath and hoped that Hogan accepted his non-answer. To tell the truth would mean admitting his German language skills and he remembered how badly his barracks had reacted to learning he knew French. And French was a language of their Allies. Admitting he knew the language of their enemy – he couldn't imagine a scenario where that wouldn't reflect badly on him.

Seeing Hogan's expression, he knew that the colonel realized that he was holding something back but thankfully the officer decided not to press the issue and told the sergeant to get some rest.

That was an order Kinchloe was glad to follow.

* * *

When Kinchloe woke up the next morning his body was stiff and his lungs decided to complain by inflicting him with a cough. It seemed getting caught wouldn't be the only price he'd have to pay for his failed escape.

After stumbling through his morning routine and trying to force down some of the stale bread the guard had given him for breakfast, he decided that the rest of his day would be best spent in bed. Besides, it wasn't like there was anything else for him to do.

However, just as he was about to fall back asleep, the sound of approaching footsteps caused him to sit up and see who had disturbed his rest. In hindsight, he should have expected Hogan to return. But he was nevertheless surprised when he looked up and saw his commanding officer standing there – again without a guard in sight.

Kinchloe's body complained as he forced himself to rise and come to attention. Hogan hadn't reprimanded him for his escape attempt last night and he didn't want to give the officer any excuses to start now.

"At ease, Sergeant."

Unsure of what to say, Kinchloe waited for Hogan to speak. He had a good idea of what the colonel wanted but he was still as unsure as he was last night as to how wise it would be to share the details of his escape.

Hogan flashed a friendly grin as he asked, "Care to share your story now?"

Fearful of how Hogan would respond to his denial but more afraid of how his CO would react to the truth, Kinchloe said, "I'd rather not say, sir."

Surprisingly, Hogan looked more curious than upset. "Why not?"

"It didn't work."

The Colonel didn't press as he instead crossed his arms and considered his charge. Thinking aloud, Hogan mused, "Burkhalter was convinced that you bribed a guard but you denied that. Now you could have lied to protect your source but my gut tells me you are telling the truth. So that leaves trickery. In particular, a trick that you seem reluctant to share even with your allies. So that makes me think that this trick is either embarrassing or involves a talent that you'd prefer to keep secret."

Kinchloe didn't have to look at Hogan's face to know that the officer was watching his reactions to his musings. He could feel those eyes studying him and it was taking all of his self-control to stare calmly back.

Hogan kept rambling on, "Now the word in the barracks is that you are fluent in French. A surprising talent as not many men in our country bother learning another language. _What are the odds that you are capable of speaking a third?"_

"Pretty high, sir," Kinchloe answered before realizing that Hogan had spoken that last sentence in German.

Immediately, fear flashed across his face but Hogan didn't seem upset. Rather he seemed pleased. "Don't worry," Hogan reassured his anxious charge. "I doubt anyone is going to think that you are a German spy."

While hewas relieved to hear his CO's words, he still couldn't help but wonder what Hogan's angle was. The officer had clearly wanted confirmation that he spoke German but why?

"So, my friend, I think…"

My _what_?

Kinchloe's blood boiled as he considered the officer standing in front of him. Who did Hogan think he was? He was an officer, Kinchloe was an enlisted man. Hogan was white, Kinchloe was colored. The gap was too large. Did Hogan really think that Kinchloe was so desperate for a friend that he would immediately trust the first person who spoke some friendly words?

For under no circumstance did he believe that Hogan was offering genuine friendship. The officer needed something from him and he suspected that the second the officer got what he wanted these overtures of friendship would cease.

There was simply no other reasonable explanation. White officers never befriended their colored subordinates. They hated them, tolerated them, or used them to achieve their own goals. But friendship? That was impossible and Kinchloe would not let himself be fooled into hoping for something that he could never receive.

Hogan was still talking but Kinchloe only paid enough attention so he could continue to give brief replies where necessary. Thankfully, the ordeal ended quickly as Schultz poked his head through the cooler door and announced that Hogan's time was up, leaving Kinchloe alone once more.

* * *

Louis LeBeau knew that there were several truths in life. One was that through good food one was able to experience a taste of the divine. Another was that trying to make something edible out of a can of SPAM and a few stolen potatoes day after day was the culinary equivalent of being trapped in purgatory for all eternity.

It was a shame. With some real meat and a few spices, he knew he could make a stew that would have his taste buds singing. Though a part of his mind whispered that it wasn't the ingredients that were the problem that but the fear that he was losing his skills after being a prisoner for so long.

Almost two years now. Two years a prisoner while his countrymen fought and died and France groaned under the weight of the occupation. Two years of being held captive in various prison camps, of failed attempts to escape and being forced to obey the orders of the dirty Boche who dared destroy his fair homeland.

Frustrated at the world, LeBeau tried to block out his depressing thoughts by attacking the skin of the closest potato with a dull knife. However, that didn't work for his hands knew how to do the work with any thought on his part and so he let his gaze wander around the room.

No one met his eyes except for Newkirk who was mending a sock and the look on the Englishman's face told LeBeau that he was paying no more attention to his sewing than the Frenchman was to his cooking. No, Newkirk was thinking about something else and, if LeBeau's guess was right, he wanted to be a part of whatever his friend was planning.

Glancing at his friend, LeBeau stated, "You have that look."

"What look?" Newkirk asked innocently.

LeBeau shot him a glare that said _you know what look I'm talking about_.

Nodding towards the window and world outside, Newkirk said, "It's getting warmer."

Suspicions confirmed, the Frenchman asked, "What's your plan?"

"Steal a sharp knife, cut the wire and get as far away as I can, as fast as I can."

"Sounds like your last plan."

It was Newkirk's turn to give LeBeau a glare that said _this has worked at getting me out of camp before._

Setting down his knife, LeBeau turned and sat down at the table across from his friend. "Hear me out. We both know that you have no problem getting out of this camp but once you're out you have nowhere to go. I know how to get to France but I keep getting caught while escaping. I think that this time we should try to escape together."

Newkirk considered the offer. "Can't hurt."

They both had been imprisoned so long that anything was worth a try,

"I leave tomorrow," Newkirk said in a tone that suggested alone if necessary.

That was not a problem as LeBeau could think of no reason to wait. "I'm coming with you."

And this time, LeBeau promised himself, he would finally see France again.

* * *

Alone in his quarters after lights out, Hogan found solace in the quiet night. He had spent so much time since his arrival at the Stalag getting to know his men and the camp that it felt like he barely had any time to think. The aftermath of Sergeant Kinchloe's escape and recapture had taken up even more of his time as Klink had insisted on having a meeting today where he attempted to lecture his senior POW on the importance of keeping his men in line.

It had taken all Hogan had not to laugh and instead give the answers that the Kommandant wanted to hear in order to keep that meeting as short as possible. For as Hogan saw it, it was his job to encourage the escapes and then, when the time was right, escape on his own.

His earlier meeting with Kinchloe hadn't gone well either. Yes, he had confirmed how the staff sergeant had managed to escape but he was no closer to gaining the colored man's trust. He told himself that he shouldn't let Kinchloe's aloofness bother him. But the problem was the longer Hogan stayed in Stalag Thirteen and the more he got to know the men, the more he felt responsible for their well-being.

_You can't save the whole world, Hogan. _

He knew that too well. He couldn't even save the men in his plane.

_But I should be able to save the men in this camp._

But he couldn't help men who refused to helped.

_No, but you can convince them to trust you._

The sound of the barracks' door opening and closing caused him to sit up in his bunk with a start. Who would risk going outdoors at this hour?

Quickly easing himself to the floor, Hogan tip-toed over to his window and opened it a crack. His eyes quickly noticed that the spotlights were searching the other side of camp so he risked fully opening the shutters and sticking his head out into the night air. It only took a him a moment to spot a shadowy figured heading straight for the wire.

The uniform was American and the figure was too tall to be Anderson and too skinny to be Brown. With Kinchloe safely locked up in the cooler that meant the escaping POW could only be Sergeant Olsen.

While silently wishing Olsen the best of luck as he watched him go quickly through the wire and disappear into the woods, Hogan realized that he was going to have to have a talk with the men about these escape attempts. He wanted the men to try but he feared that sooner or later someone was going to get himself killed.

There simply had to be a better way.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight: When Nothing Makes Sense**

Out of all the sights Hogan expected to see at roll call the next morning, the last thing he expected was the scene that was laid out before him.

He was supposed to have been awoken to news that Olsen had been caught last night or to have received the pleasure of seeing the krauts realize that he was missing and watching as the dogs barked, the guards ran around, and the alarms blared.

But instead he had awoken to the sight of Sergeant Olsen standing in formation with all the other men.

Not even bothering to pay attention to Klink, Hogan instead watched Olsen and tried to figure out what on earth had possessed the POW to return to camp after getting cleanly away.

Had he just dreamed the whole sequence?

As soon as roll call was over, Hogan didn't hesitate. He marched straight over to the object of his attentions. "Olsen, a word."

Olsen cocked his head. "Can I help you, sir?"

"You certainty can. Did you try to escape last night?"

Olsen tried to look confused but Hogan recognized overacting when he saw it. "I'm still here, aren't I?" the sergeant asked jokingly.

Hogan's voice turned cold. "Don't play games with me, Sergeant. I saw you go through the wire. Did you try to escape?"

Holding out his arms in a gesture of defeat, Olsen said, "Look, sir, if you haven't noticed we're prisoners of war. As the Kommandant says, for us, the war is over. Might as well have some fun while we pass the time."

"Soldier, I asked you a question."

Olsen smirked. "No, sir, I did not try to escape." Then before Hogan could question the flippant sergeant further, Olsen sauntered off without another word.

There were no words to describe the fury that currently flowed through Hogan's veins. Did Olsen think this was all just some game? Had he forgotten that they were at war?

Hogan had walked the streets of bombed London. He had listened to Hitler's speeches. He feared a world under Nazi control. Because of that fear and the justness of their cause, he had volunteered to fly dozens of missions; he had watched men die. He bore the weight of knowing that some of those deaths were a result of his orders. He had killed men, knowing that even as they targeted sites of military value that civilians had died due to his bombs.

He knew all too well the cost that was demanded of soldiers and he feared the enormity of that cost should they lose this war.

So the knowledge that one man made light of their situation stopped him in his tracks and made him wonder if the problem was Olsen's character or if there was something about being a prisoner that made men resign themselves to their fate.

Klink couldn't be right, could he? Hogan's contributions to this war couldn't be over, could they?

* * *

The day moved too slowly for Newkirk's liking. Stand for roll call, wash laundry, take a turn on the volleyball court during the exercise period and choke down another meal of black bread and potatoes. Even his excursions to acquire a proper knife and some supplies for the escape failed to provide a more than a short break from the monotony of camp life.

Though Newkirk knew that he shouldn't complain as he could have found some excitement if he had really wanted some. For it was clear to everyone in camp that their CO had a bee in his bonnet but no one in camp dared to inquire as to what had caused Hogan to get so worked up. Newkirk certainly wasn't going to be daft enough to cross an irate officer's path. He had a strong personal policy about officers – stay out of their business so that they'll stay out of yours.

Therefore, he was grateful that after evening roll call Hogan shut himself in his private quarters and he was able to relieve the tension of the last several hours of waiting with a not so legal poker game.

Shortly before lights out, Newkirk made a point to pass on a quick message to Sergeant Olsen. For he knew that Olsen often snuck out of the barracks at night and he considered it professional courtesy to warn his fellow POW that it would be better for him to remain in his bunk tonight. As for what Olsen did during those nighttime excursions, Newkirk considered it none of his business. A man needed to have some secrets if he was going to stay sane in this place.

"Newkirk," LeBeau whispered from the next bunk over after the rest of barracks had fallen asleep. "Are you ready?"

Silently nodding, Newkirk lowered himself to the floor and tiptoed over to the door. After opening it a crack, his keen eyes were able to spot the closest guard and figure out where in the patrol route their captors were. Sometimes, the Englishman wondered if their captors were trying to make things easy on purpose in order to tempt the prisoners to escape. He doubted it even though the searchlights moved across the courtyard in the same predictable pattern that they always did. Would Klink ever learn? Probably not.

Glancing over at his friend, Newkirk ordered, "Follow me and do exactly what I do."

He didn't wait for an answer. He and LeBeau argued a lot but they always agreed on the most important things and his little mate knew that when it came to sneaking around that their best chance lay in following his lead.

In a few short minutes, the pair reached the wire and they silently put the next part of the plan into action. LeBeau reached out and gripped one of wires near the bottom and held it taunt so that Newkirk could cut it with one swift slash. They repeated the process twice more, creating a hole that they easily slipped through. After a quick sprint the two prisoners reached the tree line and freedom.

They were out. Now, they just needed to put as much distance between them and the camp before dawn as possible. Then Newkirk would discover if LeBeau could get them to France as promised.

LeBeau was all smiles but Newkirk didn't dare celebrate yet. He had been in this situation too many times before and had still managed to get caught every single time. "Let's move."

The two of them crept quickly through the trees, but all their care came to naught because the moment that LeBeau spotted trouble was the same exact moment that Newkirk's foot landed on a dry stick.

"Patrol," LeBeau hissed as the crack of the stick breaking echoed through the forest.

Certain that they were caught, Newkirk simply reacted in hope that his mistake wouldn't cause this attempt to end in the same way as all the others. Grabbing LeBeau by the waist, he lifted his friend into the air so that he could grab a branch of the closest tree before scrambling up after him.

Newkirk was easily able to climb several feet but when he looked down, he noticed that LeBeau was struggling. His friend had managed to wrap his legs around the branch he was hanging from but was unable to lift himself up.

_Come on, LeBeau, _Newkirk thought. He wanted to call out advice, but he didn't dare to when he caught sight of a barking guard dog trotting into the clearing beneath the tree.

_Go away, doggy, _Newkirk silently begged.

The dog, oblivious to Newkirk's pleas sniffed at the ground only to look up just in time to see a human fall from the air right in front of him. Newkirk's heart leapt to this throat as he saw the dog stick his muzzle into his friend's face. That beast was hurting LeBeau!

Jumping to the ground, Newkirk grabbed a fallen branch and prepared to beat off of the vicious monster before he could do any more damage. But as he swung the branch, LeBeau sat up and thrust out his hands to protect that mangy mutt. "Stop! It's okay. She's a friend."

Newkirk eyed the German shepherd warily as the dog backed away slowly at the sight of his stick. "I think you hit your head, mate."

"Look," LeBeau commanded.

Newkirk was looking and he barely believed what he was seeing: the large guard dog had sat down and was watching them with the most innocent expression she could muster – tongue out, tail wagging.

What in the world?

Suddenly, the dog's hackles rose and she started barking and growling at the two escaped prisoners who slowly started to back away.

"You call that friendly?

But before LeBeau could answer, Schultz and another guard stumbled into the clearing and they were prisoners once more.

* * *

It had to be the middle of the night when Kinchloe heard someone enter the cooler. Groaning privately to himself, he wondered why the guards kept making these late-night bed checks. It wasn't like he could go anywhere.

The sound of approaching voices, however, told him that this was more than just a bed check.

"Come on, Schultz. We were just out for a walk. Don't lock us away."

That voice was unmistakably Newkirk. It sounded like he had been caught outside the wire. At least, Kinchloe wasn't the only one with bad luck.

"You heard the Kommandant," Schultz answered. "Thirty days in the cooler for attempting to escape."

"That's cruel and inhumane punishment," a third voice which Kinchloe identified as LeBeau declared.

"Locking you in the cooler is cruel?"

"No what is cruel is forcing me to eat nothing but camp food for thirty days."

"You are right about that," Schultz admitted. "The food is terrible."

Newkirk noticed that the American sergeant was awake and called out, "Hello, Kinchloe. We figured you were lonely so we let this tub of lard catch us."

"Jolly jokers." Then after locking his two new charges in the cell across from Kinchloe, Schultz said, "You boys behave."

"Don't worry," LeBeau reassured the guard. "We always do."

"That is what I'm worried about," Schultz murmured as he walked out of the cooler.

As soon as Schultz was gone, LeBeau turned to his friend and stated matter-of-factly, "I am telling you. The dogs are friendly."

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "I suspect that's why she started growling and barking at us then."

"She licked my face to make sure I wasn't hurt."

"She told the guards where we were!"

"Never! She was trying to protect us."

"I saved your ungrateful hide and this is the thanks I get!" Newkirk shot back. "That dog was going to bite your face off!"

LeBeau's hands were balled into fists and, for a second, Kinchloe feared that things were going to get physical. However, LeBeau settled for murmuring a string of unsavory adjectives about the English in his native tongue.

In desperation, Newkirk looked towards Kinchloe and the sergeant knew that the corporal was asking for a translation. However, Kinchloe had done that once and learned his lesson. There was no way he was going to step in the middle of this battle.

"No," he said firmly. Then in French he added, "_LeBeau, I am not going to be your translator so can you please yell at Newkirk in English or be quiet so I can get some sleep."_

LeBeau and Newkirk continued to glare daggers at one another but when LeBeau opened his mouth he finally decided to address what he was really upset about. "Newkirk ruined our escape and got us caught. If it had not been for his clumsy feet I would be halfway to France by now!"

"I ruined the escape! It was you who fell out of the tree!"

"A tree you threw me into!"

Getting very irritated, Kinchloe snapped, "At least neither of you crashed into General Burkhalter's car."

For a couple of seconds silence filled the cooler as the newest residents were shocked by Kinchloe's outburst. However, it didn't take Newkirk long to recover. "Now that was back luck, mate."

"The look on Burkhalter's face must have been priceless," LeBeau added.

"I didn't notice," Kinchloe admitted. "I was too busy watching the gun his driver was pointing at my head."

The prisoners all had a good chuckle at that image and Newkirk and LeBeau, having lost their rhythm, stopped fighting. Thankful for the blissful silence, Kinchloe laid back down on his cot only to be awakened when Newkirk and LeBeau realized that there was only one bunk in their cell and they started bickering again. Kinchloe privately groaned; he had thought being alone was bad but now he suspected that during the rest of his time in the cooler he was going to be begging for the peace and quiet of an insane asylum.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine: Revelations**

When Hogan woke up and discovered that Newkirk and LeBeau were in the cooler after attempting to escape, he decided that he was done waiting and he was done trying to befriend men who had no interest in his friendship or his advice. It was clear that this camp didn't need or want an officer. The men would try escape on their own. They had before he arrived, they did so while he was here, and they would continue to try after he left. And the truth of the matter was that, right now, he had three men in the cooler for escape attempts that he hadn't been informed of. In addition, Olsen was sneaking around at night and refused to tell him why and the rest of the camp acted like an officer was the last thing they needed. So how was Hogan supposed to fulfill his duty to assist his men when his men refused to acknowledge his authority?

Back in his unit, Hogan's flying abilities had quickly enabled him to earn the trust of the men who had served under him. He had prided himself on his ability to read men; it was part of what made him such an effective commanding officer, but here in Stalag Thirteen it was like he hit a wall.

Hogan felt that he understood the Germans well enough but his fellow prisoners were another story and suddenly earning the trust of a hundred prisoners seemed to be beyond his capabilities.

Therefore, Hogan was done. He was done wasting time trying to earn his men's trust. He couldn't help men who were unwilling to be helped. He would escape and, in escaping, help his men by proving to them that it could be done. Then Hogan could return to this war, return to a job which he knew that he was capable of performing and do his part to ensure that this war ended as fast as possible.

After all, was that not his duty as an officer?

In that moment, Hogan decided that the best possible course of action for him to take would be to escape and the sooner the better. With his knowledge of the German language, he should have no problems traveling cross-country. Crossing the border into Switzerland would probably be more difficult but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Mentally running through the plan he had been working up over the past two weeks, Hogan decided that he only needed get his hands on a couple of objects and he would ready to go. He had already spent enough time in Klink's office to memorize the map of the area and it was child's play to spot the blind spots in the wire. No, all he needed now was a knife and a set of civilian clothing. He needed papers as well but that would have to wait until him got to the nearest town – Hammelburg was the name on Klink's map.

The knife he would swipe from the kitchen and the clothes from the guards' barracks. The only catch was, as a prisoner, he was barred from both places. Though as senior POW officer, Hogan had an advantage that his fellow prisoners lacked. He was sure he could get in both places with a little help from none other than Sergeant Schultz.

"Hi, Schultz," Hogan called out as spotted the large guard sneaking a snack outside of Barracks Seven.

"Oh, Colonel Hogan. Forgive me if I do not get up. I am eating."

"Nice snack," Hogan commented. "Are they not feeding you enough in the mess hall?"

Schultz groaned. "Don't speak of the mess while I eating. It puts me off my appetite."

"Your food is as bad as ours?"

"The same cooks prepare it."

Hogan snapped his fingers as he had suddenly come up with an idea. "You know if I saw how the food was prepared, I might just discover a few violations and, if I tell Klink that I'm planning on reporting them, he'll be forced to improve the food."

"Would you?" Schultz' face light up at the prospect

"I'd be doing both of us a favor. But I can't go into the kitchen without an escort…"

Schultz moved faster than Hogan had ever seen as he jumped to feet. "Sergeant Schultz reporting for duty."

That had been too easy and so, twenty minutes later, Hogan walked out of the mess with a long list of violations and a nice knife tucked under his jacket. For all of Schultz' complaints about the food, he still tried to sneak some of it leaving the American with the opening he needed to swipe the contraband.

Next step: civilian clothes.

"You know, this inspection got me thinking. I wonder if there are other places in this camp I should inspect: the motor pool, the dog kennels, the guard barracks…"

"The guard barracks," Schultz quickly repeated. "The heating is terrible and we are crowded in worse than the prisoners."

Gesturing for his eager escort to lead the way, Hogan said, "After you."

This time the job wasn't as simple as grabbing an item when Schultz' back was turned. But Schultz was only too happy to list the names of the guards who shared each room. It was easy enough to complain about the smell and crack a window in room belonging to a guard that Hogan knew was close to his size.

He would come back later to get the clothes.

As Hogan stepped back outside, he turned up his collar to protect himself from a blast of windy air. "Thanks, Schultz. I'll talk to the Kommandant tomorrow."

Of course, Hogan didn't add that he intended to be as possible away from camp tomorrow. He had everything he needed and no reason to wait. For tomorrow he would be a free man.

* * *

If breakfast was a sordid affair, then lunch could only be described as a fiasco. It was not that the meal had changed for the worse as it was the same brown bread flavored with sawdust and washed down with porridge so thin it might as well have been water, it was more that Kinchloe's and Newkirk's patience for LeBeau's commentary was running out.

For after a long tirade about the non-existent skills of their cook, LeBeau pushed his bowl away and declared, "I will not eat this trash!"

Newkirk threw up his arms in disgust. "I don't need to hear this at every bleeding meal."

LeBeau glared at his cellmate but, before he could reply, Newkirk continued on, "Admit it, LeBeau. You're homesick. I'm homesick. We're all homesick but gripping about it isn't going to change anything."

"Oh, and I suppose you are a just a ray of sunshine in this dreary place."

Kinchloe braced himself to hear Newkirk's angry retort but was surprised to hear the calm and the warmth in the Englishman's voice. "You know I'm not. How can I be, knowing that those krauts are bombing London night after night."

"Paris has it worse."

"Yes, she does, mate."

As Kinchloe watched the two men in the cell across from him he began to understand just how deep their friendship was. Yes, they argued but it was clear that they argued to relieve their tension of knowing the ones they loved were in danger and the guilt they felt at being helpless to do a thing about it. They knew exactly how far they could push and they knew when the other needed him to pull back.

What Kinchloe wouldn't give to have a friendship like that.

LeBeau sighed. "We aren't ever getting out of here."

"We're a sorry lot." Newkirk agreed. "Going mad in this foul place. Maybe we should just throw in the towel. Ole Klink is right, for us the war is over."

Kinchloe should stay out of it. LeBeau and Newkirk were close friends, he was just the interloper, eavesdropping where he wasn't needed or wanted. But yet something inside of Kinchloe told him to speak.

"I don't believe you."

Newkirk head snapped to the side and he glared at the American who dared to interrupt his speech.

That look almost made Kinchloe stop but again he followed his gut "You have been prisoners longer than anyone else in this camp and yet you've tried to escape more than everyone else in this camp combined. If you were going to give up, you would have done it several attempts ago."

"That's easy for you to say," Newkirk countered. "You've only been here a couple weeks. Wait a couple years and then we can talk."

How Kinchloe could he say he understood their struggle? It wasn't likely that the Europeans knew the history of his people or would know that Kinchloe understood what it felt to fight for a cause year after year without ever seeing any results."

"Don't be so hard on him, Newkirk. He understands more than you think." LeBeau said before turning his attention back to Kinchloe. "Don't think we haven't seen how your own countrymen treat you. We want to escape to fight for our homelands. You fight for something else."

"Respect," Kinchloe whispered, barely believing that he had said it aloud.

Newkirk still looked angry with this time his words were filled with anger for his fellow prisoner. "Any man with half a brain would respect a man who had the guts to try what you pulled."

"I guess I'll have to try again until they get it through their thick skulls," Kinchloe joked.

Newkirk let out a short laugh while LeBeau's eyes blazed with passion. "So we are in agreement," the Frenchman declared. "We plan another escape."

"Agreed," Newkirk said, "but I am not waiting for Anderson to finish that tunnel."

"Anderson has a tunnel?" Kinchloe asked.

"Oui, under Clayworth's bunk. It still needs a lot of work though."

A momentary surge of anger toward Anderson for his secrecy passed as Kinchloe instead realized that Newkirk and LeBeau where speaking to him as if he were an equal partner in their next caper.

Had he been wrong? Could he really find friends in this place after all?

It looked like he was going to get the opportunity to find out.

* * *

Part of Hogan wanted to shout in celebration as he walked down the streets of Hammelburg. The buildings, the people, it was such a change from the dreariness of Stalag Thirteen that Hogan felt like he was walking in a dreamland.

And the women! It had been too long since he had seen one of fairer sex. And while Hogan realized that these people were his enemies that didn't mean he couldn't take some pleasure from the scenery.

For escaping had been ridiculously easy. Hogan had simply timed the spotlights and waited for the right moment to sprint across the compound, cut the wire and duck into the safety of the nearby forest. The civilian clothes he had stolen were a decent fit and he had gotten lucky and found some money in one of the pants pockets. The map in Klink's office had been accurate and so it had been easy to find the town of Hammelburg. Now, all he needed was to steal some papers and buy a ticket on the next train west.

Forcing his eyes away from a pretty young lady who ducked into a building called the Hofbrau, Hogan remained on the street and look for a man with similar features to himself. Luck was on Hogan's side as he spotted a likely candidate within a few short minutes. But it looked like this restaurant was a popular destination as the man walked inside before Hogan could make his move.

Going into a restaurant would be more dangerous than wondering the streets, but Hogan needed those papers and he couldn't count on finding another mark that met his specifications. So summoning up his courage, Hogan put a smile on his face and walked through the front door.

Inside the Hofbrau, Hogan had to stop himself from staring. He smelled real food, he could just taste the beer, and the sounds of people taking and laughing made him realize all the things that he missed being a prisoner of war.

Well, he wouldn't be missing them much longer.

Knowing that he needed to buy a drink to avoid being conspicuous – and rather pleased that this was case – Hogan walked causally up to the bar only to see something that made him stop in his tracks.

Sitting on a barstool with his arm around the beautiful young woman he spotted earlier was Sergeant Olsen.

As Hogan started moving again, his brain quickly put together all the facts he knew and it didn't like the conclusions he was making. He now needed to add another step to his plan. He needed to confront Olsen.

"Guten tag, Fraulein." Hogan said as he placed a coin on the bar top, leaning past her and Olsen as he ordered a mug of whatever was on tap.

Olsen's eyes went wide as he recognized his commanding officer. Hogan gestured to the runaway sergeant that he wanted to talk. Olsen whispered something in his lady's ear that made her giggle, took a long drink from his beer and then followed Hogan to a secluded table in the corner.

Hogan wasted no time in getting to the point. "What are you doing here?"

"I should be asking you that question," Olsen countered.

"I'm escaping while I get the sense you intend to back in camp before morning roll call."

"You would be correct," Olsen answered with a smirk.

"So you sneak out of camp to drink and pick up girls," Hogan stated, forcibly keeping the anger he was feeling from his voice.

"A man has to make the best of his situation."

"I could order you to escape."

Olsen snorted. "I'd like to see you try."

It took every ounce of willpower Hogan had to keep his voice low. "We need ever man we can get and if you know enough German to pick up girls, you know enough to make it across the country."

"Funny, sir, but I wouldn't have considered a visit to the Hofbrau a normal stop on an escaped prisoner's route."

"I need to get my hands on some papers first."

Olsen leaned in so that his face was mere inches away and so the colonel wouldn't miss the conviction in his voice. "Then do it and go. I'm not holding you back. I have a good thing going here and I don't plan on ruining it. So if you will excuse me, I have a lady to entertain."

Dumbfounded, Hogan just watched him go. In all his years, he had never seen such a selfish, egotistical, self-centered soldier in this his entire military career.

At that moment Hogan wanted nothing more than to drag the disgraceful sergeant up on a court martial but decided that Olsen wasn't worth it. Instead, he needed to calm down and follow through with his plan. He needed to keep a close eye on his mark. Unless he planned on hiking cross-country, the most important thing was getting his hands on those papers.

A waiter gave him a mug which Hogan nursed. He was no longer able to take pleasure from his first taste of alcohol in months. He was on a mission and he could not let himself be distracted by the pleasures in life – not even the pleasures of a lady who cast a flirting glance his way.

Finally, his mark rose and Hogan moved to discreetly follow. Nothing else mattered. He would corner this man, knock him out and steal his papers. Once he had those papers, Hogan had no doubt that he would be able to find a way out of the country.

Once his target turned down a side street, Hogan started to close the distance. But, before he could close the gap, they both stumbled back into the war.

Black uniformed men surrounded a small house and Hogan recognized them as Gestapo. He needed to get out of here and fast. If the Gestapo stopped him for questioning and realized that he was an American he would be shot as spy if not worse.

But before Hogan could turn around there was loud crash as a large object flew out of a first floor window and landed only a few feet in front of him. It was a radio and by some miracle it was mostly intact though bits and pieces of it had broken off and were scattered across the street.

Hogan knew he needed to leave but he couldn't. He was frozen as he watched more Gestapo drag members of the family out of the building: a man, his wife, and three kids. The man was bleeding and looked like he had been beaten. The woman and children were treated just as harshly as they were shoved into waiting cars.

A man who stopped beside Hogan whispered, "They must be members of the underground."

When Hogan turned to ask this man what he meant, he had already disappeared into the crowd that was gathering in the street.

Hogan hadn't walked into a dreamland when he had entered Hammelburg; he had entered a nightmare. He was now in a world where secret police could terrorize its own citizens and people lived in fear from those who should protect them.

As a Gestapo officer began to give orders to his men, Hogan recognized that this was his best chance at getting away unseen but something stopped him.

It was an impulse. A stupid, reckless impulse. But before Hogan could think he had thrown his jacket over the discarded radio and then scooped it up in arms and took off down a side street.

By some miracle, no one noticed his actions but still Hogan's heart beat rapidly against his chest. What was he doing? He should be getting out of town. He couldn't carry a radio halfway across the country. He needed to drop the radio, get those papers, and leave town.

But his moment had passed. In the confusion, Hogan had lost sight of his mark. No, not a mark – a man. A man whom Hogan had planned on mugging just so he could steal his wallet and his papers.

But Hogan was no longer sure that this man was an enemy and if he wasn't an enemy than how could Hogan justify mugging him?

Besides, there was no way that Hogan could escape. Not tonight. Not after what he just saw. Not after learning that there were Germans who opposed the current regime, Germans who had much to fear from their government but still dared to fight back.

Hogan had seen true evil this night and he would never be able to forget it.

The American officer had been just as selfish as Olsen. He had thought only of getting himself to England and helping his country and her allies win this war. Hogan had forgotten that not all Germans were his enemies. That some were fighting for the same cause – risking far more than Hogan ever had as a pilot.

And if there was those were willing to fight back against Hitler, if Hogan could make contact with the underground, he could give them a change to strike a real blow against the evil that had taken root in their country.

With the help of the underground, Hogan could do more than simply escape. He could find a way to help every single man in Stalag Thirteen escape and maybe even something more.

However, if Hogan was to do this thing, he couldn't do it alone.

Luckily, it didn't take Hogan long to realize that he had the men he needed were already in Stalag Thirteen. The officer knew that the men he wanted were a hot-tempered French chef, an irritable English thief, a multilingual distrustful Negro, and, even though it pained him to admit it, an insubordinate, doll dizzy American.

_What a band of merry misfits we'd be_, Hogan mused.

And in that moment, Hogan began to understand just what drove these men to be the people they were.

He understood that underneath LeBeau's anger and Newkirk's bitterness were two men who were itching to fight to protect their families and their homelands. That behind Kinchloe's distrust was a man searching for acceptance. While Olsen was still a question mark, the colonel recognized that Olsen's swagger and sheer brazen were qualities that Hogan needed if he was going to pull this plan off.

It wouldn't be easy, convincing these men to join in his crazy scheme but Hogan knew they were the right men. Together, with the help of the underground, they would strike a blow against the Nazis and make a real difference in this war.

Decision made, Hogan headed back to the Hofbrau. If he was going to willingly return to Stalag Thirteen, he might as well return in a way that the camp would never forget.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten: The Most Escapable Prison Camp in All of Germany**

Sergeant Hans Schultz normally hated night duty. But if he had to be on duty then he gladly would have volunteered for gate duty every night. For gate duty meant that he had a small hut to protect himself from the elements and, since guards in the towers would spot anything suspicious before he could, no one noticed he that spent his hours on duty taking a nice long nap.

He felt no guilt from this dereliction of duty, for if he had a choice in the matter he wouldn't be a soldier. And while he knew that if he had to be a soldier that he was lucky to be a prison guard, he still hated how most of the prisoners viewed him as an enemy. If he had any choice there would also be no enemies.

Though who was he fooling? No one ever asked the opinion of a man who preferred to make toys instead of war. But if someone ever asked him, then he would say that the world would be a better place if governments ordered all soldiers to be toymakers instead of the other way around.

Schultz signed and shifted his position on his stool. If he was going to dream, he might as well do so in his sleep. Closing his eyes, he had almost nodded off only to be startled by the sound of cries from the closest towers.

Thankfully, Schultz's eyes opened right as Corporal Langenscheidt entered the guard hut. "Sergeant!"

Standing, Schultz did his best to look authoritative. "Was ist los?"

"There's a man approaching the gate," Langenscheidt stammered.

Wondering who would be crazy enough to be walking towards a prison camp in the middle of the night, Schultz reluctantly grabbed his rifle and carefully walked over to the locked gate.

There was a man approaching. A civilian from the looks of his clothes, but darkness meant that Schultz couldn't make out his features. Rising his rifle in what he hoped was a threatening manner, Schultz called out, "Halt!"

The man took one more step and stopped where he was finally able to see his face. But the man who Schultz was seeing couldn't really be who Schultz thought he was seeing. The man he thought he was seeing was a prisoner who was supposed to be in bed asleep and not awake and returning to camp after an escape.

Hogan, however, grinned as he seemed to delight in the confusion he was causing. "Hello! Beautiful night we have here."

If Schultz's jaw had dropped any further it would have hit the ground. "Colonel Hogan! What are doing outside the gate? What are you doing out of uniform? Where did you get beer?"

"Nice to see you, too, Schultz," Hogan replied, raising his pilfered mug in a salute. "Do you think you could let me back in?"

Schultz shook his head. This could not be real. He was probably still asleep.

"But…but, Colonel Hogan, what are you doing outside the gate?

Hogan shrugged. "If you don't want me to come back in, I can go back to town. Did you know that the Hofbrau makes a really good sauerbraten?"

This was real. Schultz had experienced weird dreams before but never had he never imagined anything as crazy as an escaped prisoner drinking beer and asking to be let back into camp. Oh, he was going to be in so much trouble.

Gesturing for Langenscheidt to open the gate, he declared, "No, you cannot go to town. You should not have been to town in the first place. When the Kommandant finds out that you have been to town, Iam going to be in so much trouble."

As Hogan stepped through the gate he tried to be helpful. "What the Kommandant doesn't know can't hurt him. Why don't you let me return to my bunk and we forget about the whole thing."

Forget the whole thing! Was he crazy? "No, no, no. I must take you to the Kommandant."

Hogan shrugged, but due to the smirk on his face, Schultz was beginning to suspect that hehad wanted to be taken to the Kommandant the whole time.

Grateful that Langenscheidt had run ahead to wake up the Kommandant, Schultz led the American officer into the office and began to debate whether he could sneak out before his commanding officer spotted him but, at the same time, he didn't dare leave Colonel Hogan alone. There was no telling what the American would do.

The door opened and Kommandant Klink stumbled into the room, barely awake and looking ridiculous in a red robe but Hogan either didn't notice or care as the American officer called out, "Beer, Kommandant? It's pretty good stuff."

The sight of his senior prisoner of war dressed in suit and offering him a mug of beer quickly woke up the Prussian officer. "Hogan!"

"Yes?"

Klink closed his eyes and shook his head in hope that when he opened them again things would be back to normal. Schultz felt sorry for his commanding officer. He had already tried that; it hadn't helped.

"Would you care to explain what you are doing with beer and standing here in civilian clothes?"

Hogan gave another one of his patented smirks. "I was bored and decided to take a walk into town."

"You just can't walk out of a prison camp anytime you like!"

"I can't?" Hogan asked in a mocking tone. Then turning serious, he moved so that his face was only a few centimeters from Klink's own. "Kommandant, this is the most escapable prison camp in all of Germany!"

Klink looked crestfallen. "But no one has ever escaped from Stalag Thirteen," he protested weakly.

"I could have escaped tonight. And I seem to remember that Sergeant Kinchloe drove out of this camp a couple days ago. Also, how many times has Corporal Newkirk made it outside the wire?"

"But you all were caught."

"I wasn't caught, sir. I returned."

"You…what?" Klink gasped.

"It is true, Herr Kommandant," Schultz reluctantly admitted. "Colonel Hogan walked up to the front gate and asked to be let in."

Shocked and overwhelmed, Klink slowly sat down in the chair behind his desk. "This can't be."

What happened next almost caused Schultz to drop his rifle as he watched Hogan take advantage of Klink's shock to deftly open the Kommandant's humidor, stuff a couple of cigars in his jacket and close the lid. The Kommandant never noticed a thing. Then, as if that wasn't enough, the man had the audacity to light a match on Klink's helmet and start smoking another pilfered cigar. "So, Kommandant, about your security."

"Apparently I have no security," a depressed Klink murmured. But when the Kommandant looked up and saw Hogan smoking his cigar, it triggered something within the man and in a fit of anger he reached out and grabbed it from his enemy's mouth.

Unfazed, Hogan grabbed the cigar back but he just held it loosely in his hand. "Admit it, Kommandant. You need my help or... how did Burkhalter put it? Find yourself with a one way ticket to the Russian Front."

Klink stole the cigar back again and this time snuffed it out and tossed it in the trash. The little battle seemed to have given Klink back his ability to think and a small measure of courage to challenge Hogan. "I find it surprising that you, an American prisoner, would help me prevent your allies from escaping this camp."

Hogan sighed. "I want to escape and I want my men to escape. But I do not want my men to get hurt. And right now it is too easy for men to escape this camp with no clue on how to get out of the country. So I fear it will it only be a matter of time before one of my men is injured or worse."

"How magnanimous of you," a skeptical Klink said. "But that does explain why you returned after getting away."

Hogan hung his head in shame. "Gestapo. I almost ran into a band of them prowling in town. I realized that things would end badly if they realized that I was an American."

"That was a wise decision, Colonel Hogan," Klink agreed. "The Gestapo does not follow the same niceties as the Luftwaffe."

The Kommandant seemed to accept that answer but Schultz wasn't so sure. Hogan wasn't acting like a man who was scared. He was acting cocky and in control. Yet, as Schultz watched the two enemy officers banter, he began to get the sense that something important was happening. Though, he decided that is was not the place of mere sergeant to figure out what that something was.

"So, Kommandant, that is why I decided to help fix the gaps in your security. In return for my assistance, I receive no punishment for my escape and the men currently in the cooler are released. With your security being as lax as it was they can't be blamed for trying."

Klink smiled. "And after I fix my security according to your specifications you will know exactly how to escape and my record will be ruined. Request denied."

"But, Kommandant..." Hogan protested.

"Schultz, take Colonel Hogan to cooler. There he will learn the consequences of trying to escape on my watch."

"Gee, a guy tries to help and this is the thanks he gets. Remind me to never return to this camp after escaping again."

Fearful of what would happen if Hogan kept talking, Schultz gently grabbed the American by the elbow and led him out of the office. As the two walked to the cooler, Hogan turned his attention to his guard. "So, Schultz, the Kommandant didn't get that mad."

Schultz groaned. "That was because he was tired. I will get an earful in the morning."

Hogan snapped his fingers. "You know I feel bad about dragging you into this mess. Why don't I help you out with Klink. Place me in the same cell as Kinchloe."

"But, Colonel Hogan, I cannot do that!" Schultz cried. "You are an officer. Kinchloe is a sergeant."

"That's the beauty of it! Placing an officer in cell with an enlisted man. The Kommandant will thank you for thinking up such a humiliating punishment and will forget to be mad at you for the escape."

The idea had some merit but Schultz doubted that it would put him in his CO's good graces. Though, to tell the truth, Schultz wasn't sure what to think of anymore as far as Hogan was concerned. So, in the end, the guard went ahead and put Hogan in the cell he asked for. After all, how much worse could things get?


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven: A Night in the Cooler **

The sudden onset of light roused Kinchloe from his slumber.

He wasn't the only one. "Someone turn out the lights," LeBeau murmured groggily from the cell across from his.

Figuring the bed check would be over in a minute, Kinchloe squeezed his eyes shut, rolled over and tried to fall back asleep.

"LeBeau, wake up," Newkirk hissed. Kinchloe didn't have to open his eyes to guess that the Englishman was shaking his friend awake. "Schultz is bringing in another prisoner."

That convinced Kinchloe to open his eyes and sit up on his bunk. Then when he realized just who the company was, the sergeant quickly jumped to his feet and came to attention. For he doubted that Colonel Hogan was here for a late-night visit. And if the colonel was to be thrown into the cooler that meant he would be in a bad mood. Unfortunately, Kinchloe knew from experience that the last thing one wanted to do was give an officer an excuse to take their anger out on him by breaking protocol.

Though, oddly enough, Hogan didn't look upset. In fact, the officer came across as smug while Schultz looked pale and worried. But the surprises didn't end there as Hogan didn't even protest when Schultz opened the door to Kinchloe's cell and gestured him inside.

Kinchloe's heart sunk; this was going to be trouble. Whatever Hogan had done it must have been bad for Klink to order him to share a cell with an enlisted man – a colored enlisted man. Kinchloe swallowed nervously; there was no way that he could see this ending well.

Newkirk shot Kinchloe a worried glance. It seemed that the two prisoners were thinking similar thoughts. Even LeBeau had gotten out of the bunk to watch this scene play out.

"At ease," Hogan said, gesturing for his cellmate to take a seat.

Instead, Kinchloe leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. He would not sit while Hogan stood and when the time came he would give up the bunk and blanket and sleep on the floor. No matter how casually Hogan acted, he couldn't afford to forget that he was just a colored sergeant and Hogan was a white officer. He knew too well how white officers had punished men in his unit whom the officers had believed had acted above their station. Kinchloe would not let his guard down – not for an instant. Even friendly officers had changed their tune when they had felt insulted.

"So, sir," Newkirk asked tentatively, "what did you do to incur our bungling jailor's wrath?"

Hogan face lit up; he had been waiting for someone to ask. "Klink didn't like the beer I brought him from town."

Newkirk's jaw dropped. "What?"

"But…how?" LeBeau exclaimed.

"He speaks German," Kinchloe said, a hint of suspicion in his voice. If Hogan had made it to town, then what was he doing back in camp?

Hogan nodded towards the sergeant. "A trait I share with my cellmate here."

"So you escaped and where captured in town," LeBeau guessed.

"Close. I did escape and I did make it to town. But I wasn't recaptured. I came back."

"Traitor!" LeBeau yelled loud enough that Kinchloe wondered if the guards outside heard.

Hogan held his hands in a gesture asking for peace. "Hear me out."

"Right," Newkirk growled. "Like I should listen to Gerry loving coward of an officer!"

"I could make that an order, Corporal."

Newkirk grew quiet and LeBeau glared while Kinchloe could have cut the tension with a knife.

Sensing that he had his audience's attention, Hogan explained, "I planned on escaping but when I was town I saw the Gestapo arresting members of the German Underground."

When his words were met with blank stares, he continued, "Think about it. A German Underground means we have allies in this country. Everyone one of you has managed to get outside the wire but you still got caught. What would have happened if you could have met someone who could help you get out of the country? All three of you probably would have made it."

The officer's words sounded appealing but Kinchloe was skeptical. "And how are we supposed to meet up with these 'friendly' helpers?"

"I'm still working on that part," Hogan admitted. "But we know they exist and if they exist we can find them."

"And trust a boche! I don't want to walk into some Gestapo trap."

Newkirk was incredulous. "Sir, has anyone ever told you that you're out of your bloody mind?"

Hogan looked pained. "You think this is a joke? You think I would return to this camp without a plan to get back out again?"

Newkirk and LeBeau exchanged a look that left no doubt as to what they were thinking but they both seemed to think that it was better to leave things be. Neither of them wanted to confess that they really believed that the Colonel had gotten cold feet and was too ashamed to admit it.

"I'm going back to sleep," LeBeau announced.

Newkirk turned away as well and laid down on his spot on the floor.

Realizing that he had lost the men, the Colonel lowered himself onto the cell's only chair. His voice was despondent as he said, "You can have the bunk. I doubt I'll get to sleep."

Even though Hogan sounded genuine, Kinchloe resisted and instead sat down on the floor. He had been hurt too many times in the past to bring himself to trust at a word now. Besides, he was tired and he needed to sleep. But the question was: could he calm down enough to fall asleep in a cell shared he with an officer?

The sound of movement almost caused him to jump up again but he forced himself to be still. He couldn't let himself react to everything the Hogan did or he would go insane during the rest of his time in the cooler.

Yet, he couldn't help but notice that Hogan had also moved to the floor and was sitting with his back leaning against the wall cattycorner to his own. For a moment their gazes met causing Kinchloe to tense and wait for Hogan to speak. But the usually talkative officer remained silent.

The seconds ticked by and the tension inside of Kinchloe only grew. He would never fall asleep now. Nervously, the fingers of his right hand began to tap randomly against the cold floor. To his exhausted mind it sounded like his familiar Morse key. So it was more out of instinct than intention that he carefully tapped out the question that was weighing heavily on his mind. _Why do you care?_

He had been caught up in his own thoughts that he was shocked when the last thing he expected to happen did; Hogan replied with a slower yet steady hand that asked, _why are you surprised that I do? _

Surprise? No, Kinchloe was not surprised at Hogan's display of care. He had encountered several whites in his life who had convinced themselves that they cared for his people. His guidance counselor had believed he was giving helpful, caring advice when he steered him away from the college path. Anderson was convinced he was giving the right advice when he told him to stay out of the other prisoners' way. No, what Kinchloe wanted, no, what he needed was to know was why Hogan cared.

"Sir," Kinchloe asked, "what is this really about?"

"What I said before. Doing my duty and helping every man in this camp escape."

Clearly, he wasn't going to budge. But Kinchloe wouldn't let himself be swayed. He had seen this act before. He knew where this road led. This officer would be no different than the others.

Yet, what he wanted might not matter. All Hogan had to do was give the order and he would have no option but to obey, to once more go down a path that another person had deemed was best for him.

And he was tired of it.

"Sir, I know you want to use my language skills. I guessed that from the first time you came poking around in my cell. But do you know how I learned French and German?"

Hogan opened his mouth to speak, but Kinchloe didn't give him a chance. "I taught myself," he said as he jumped to his feet and starting pacing across the cell. "Because, you see, men – men like you – decided that it was impractical for a man of my background to study such things. So I taught myself the languages from books and I built my own radio in order to listen to stations in Europe so I could practice. I went to a trade school and studied electronics because no one believed that I could handle the rigors of a university education, and I couldn't afford to go without a scholarship."

Hogan slowly rose to his feet but oddly enough he remained silent as the sergeant continued his rant. "I should have learned my lesson but I foolishly believed that a _segregated_ military would be different. But even though I tested highly as a navigator in the aptitude test, I was made a radio operator instead, because policies dictate that officers should be college educated.

"I wasn't long in this camp before I was told that it would be best if I stayed out of everyone's way, keep my head down, and obeyed the orders of everyone else in this camp." He was yelling now but he didn't stop. The dam had burst and now a lifetime of bottled anger kept flowing out. "Well, sir, I'm done. I am done taking orders from men who think they understand me when in reality they don't know a thing about me or what I am capable of doing." Moving so that he standing only mere inches away from his superior officer, he said, "I am tired of being used and I will not…"

Suddenly, strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back but, before he could shrug away from the grip, he heard Newkirk's voice in his ear urging him to back down.

Kinchloe blinked. That couldn't be Newkirk. Newkirk was supposed to be in a different cell. But there was no mistaking the fact that the Englishman was standing right next to him.

What in the world was going on?

It didn't take Kinchloe long to realize that it was Newkirk that had happened. He should have guessed that a man who stole from their captors as much as the corporal did must be able to pick locks.

LeBeau joined them and placed a comfortable hand on Kinchloe's forearm. The American NCO flinched at the touch. Why where they here? It couldn't be to support him, could it? Had he finally found friends in this place?

Friendship or no – it would make little difference in the end.

His fate was entirely in Hogan's hands.

Because there was no doubt in Kinchloe's mind that he had just crossed a line that no man in his position should ever cross.

Yet Hogan remained silent.

Kinchloe wished that the officer would speak. The waiting only caused him to reflect on just how much trouble he was in. He had contradicted a superior officer; he had yelled at a white man. One simply did not do these things. Hogan would be within his rights to bust him down to private right now and, once they got out of this place, he could see to it that he never served in the military again. And there was no possible way that Kinchloe could undo the damage he had just done.

"Sorry, sir," he murmured as he looked down at his shoes. His courage had been used up; he would take whatever punishment Hogan decided to mete out.

But Hogan's voice was surprisingly calm and in control. "Stop that," he ordered. "Look at me."

Raising his head, Kinchloe prepared himself for the verbal barrage he knew was coming.

"I don't ever want see that man again."

Swallowing his pride, Kinchloe apologized, "I let my anger get the better of me, sir. I promise it won't happen again."

Hogan shook his head. "I'm not upset at the man who yelled at me. I am upset at the man who doesn't think he's worthy enough to look me in the eye."

If Kinchloe hadn't already been convinced that the officer was crazy those words would have confirmed it. Hogan was not making any sense.

"Staff Sergeant James Kinchloe, when I look at you I see two men. At times, I see a man who submits, stays silent, and is ashamed of who he is. But I have seen glimpses of a different man. A man who when the world said you couldn't learn a foreign language or serve as an equal in the military stood up and proved them wrong. And for this operation, I need the man who had the guts to drive out of this camp in the Kommandant's own car. I need the fighter who was willing to speak up against his own superior officer and speak the truth about his situation. Can I count on the assistance of that man?"

At first, Kinchloe didn't even hear the question – he was still stunned by the fact that Hogan wasn't even the slightest bit angry with him. Especially, since he still couldn't bring himself to believe that Hogan didn't just plan on using him and then forgetting all about him. But he needed to give an answer. So he gave the only honest response he could. "I don't know, Colonel."

Glancing at Newkirk and LeBeau, Hogan continued, "You two steal food and cook meals, not caring if the guards see and know. I've been told that you have tried to escape more times than the rest of this camp combined. You both have been imprisoned the longest but refuse to stop fighting. And just a few days ago I saw the two of you, without a second thought, attempt to hide from the guards the fact that Kinchloe was missing."

"They did that?" Kinchloe asked, shock evident in his voice.

"Yes they did," Hogan confirmed. "And I'm guessing that Newkirk was the one who picked the locks on our cells."

"Guilty as charged, sir," Newkirk said, "But I don't see how our skills are going to help you make contact with the Underground."

"I admit that will be the hard part. But I need people in camp who can trick the guards, gather supplies, and get things prepared so when we do make contact we can put our plan into action right away."

LeBeau seemed to be seriously considering the matter. "Keep talking."

"Now I won't order any of you to help me – this is a volunteer operation. There will be danger if we are discovered, and some of our tricks may land you in the cooler, but I do believe we have a chance to make contact."

"You seem to be missing a step," Newkirk stated. "How are we supposed to do that, considering we are trapped in here for the next month?"

There was an unmistakable mischievous twinkle in Hogan's eye. "Klink will let us out."

Newkirk snorted in disbelief, and LeBeau asked sarcastically, "When do you expect that to happen, mon Colonel?"

"Tomorrow morning. Noon if he briefly discovers his spine, but I doubt it."

The three enlisted men exchanged looks. Hogan wasn't kidding. He truly believed that Klink would do everything the American officer said he would do.

"Say for a moment, I believe you that Klink is going to let us out of here tomorrow. What is it exactly that you hope to accomplish?" Kinchloe inquired.

"Plan a mass escape. Then hide out with the local resistance until we can get everyone to England."

Newkirk laughed. "This is nuts!"

"Only if it fails," Hogan said with a smirk. "If it works it'll be brilliant."

"More like pandemonium," Newkirk murmured. But there was no denying he was secretly intrigued by Hogan's certainty that his plan would work. In fact, the man's willingness to endure their skepticism about his plan was starting to win him over.

"And even if some of us got caught, it would tie up the German war effort for weeks," LeBeau added excitedly.

The plan sounded almost too good to be true for Kinchloe's ears. "Do you really think we could pull this off?"

Hogan grinned. "I wouldn't have come back if I didn't."

It was crazy. They had no hope of achieving half of what Hogan was suggesting, but for some deluded reason Kinchloe found himself wanting to give the officer's plan a chance.

"But if I am to do this, I can't do it alone," Hogan said. "Are you guys in?"

"I still think you've gone round the bend," Newkirk admitted, "but I'd try anything to escape this place."

"Escape and hurt the boche! I am with you, Colonel."

All eyes turned to Kinchloe as he thought over the proposal.

He really should say no. Even if Hogan pulled this off, it was unlikely that he would bring a colored soldier along for the escape. But yet, the part of him that never stopped believing that the world could change told him to go for it. No other officer would have shrugged off his outburst like Hogan had. He owed it himself to give the Colonel a chance. "If you want me, sir, I will do what I can."

"Great!" Hogan's grin was infectious and, as he whipped out a handful of cigars from underneath his jacket that he had swiped from Klink for them all to smoke, Kinchloe dared dream that the confident officer would deliver on everything he had promised.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve: Traitor or Ally?**

Hogan was right.

Kinchloe didn't know how and he didn't know why, but shortly after morning roll the Colonel's first promise was fulfilled.

When the Kommandant approached their cell with an exhausted looking Schultz at his heels, Hogan called out: "Morning, Kommandant. Have you decided to accept my deal?" Really, he looked more chipper than anyone who'd just pulled an all-nighter had a right to be.

"Hogan!" Klink cried. "As your Kommandant, I do not have to make deals with prisoners."

Hogan shrugged nonchalantly. "I would hate to think how many prisoners will attempt to escape before our release. I believe we've proven how easy it is to get through your wire."

"Don't push your luck, Colonel. You are still my prisoner." Klink attempted to sound fierce but the wavering hint of fear ruined the effect.

"You need my help, sir."

Klink sighed. "I have thought about our conversation, and as a fellow officer I will offer you the chance to serve out the rest of your sentence in the barracks in return for a simple exchange of services."

"No deal. The agreement was for every man in the cooler and all punishments lifted."

"Impossible. Your knowledge isn't worth that much."

"It's worth your life when someone escapes and you get sent to the Russian front."

Klink was clearly struggling to choose between self-preservation and duty. Self-preservation was winning out, but he still clung tight to the tattered remains of his pride. "You can go free. Sergeant Kinchloe, and Corporals Newkirk and LeBeau are restricted to barracks for the rest of their sentence."

Kinchloe thought that Hogan had Klink right where he wanted him so he was surprised when the glib officer countered with a concession. "Fine, I'll give you my advice and, if you drop all punishments, I will organize a group of prisoners to help you build it."

"Build what?" Klink asked confused.

"Not without a deal."

"Agreed," Klink said, before a hint of warning entered his voice. "But if you go back on your word, everyone returns to cooler."

Hogan grinned. "Deal."

Klink's eyes gleamed. "Now, Colonel Hogan, I believe you owe me some information."

"I believe I am still standing in a cell."

"Schultz, open the door!"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

As Hogan stepped out into freedom, he gestured across the corridor. "And the other one." Once the others were freed, the colonel stood before his enemy with a smug grin on his face. "Your problem, Kommandant, is that it's too easy to break through the barbed wire. One slash with a sharp knife and we are free. The guards never see a thing. But if you had a second ring of wire around the camp it would take twice as long for a prisoner to cut through. And your guards would surely spot that."

Even though Hogan had warned them about what he was going to say, it was still shocking to hear those words from the lips of an ally. Thankfully, Hogan had ordered them to show that shock.

"Traitor!" LeBeau yelled.

"Whose side are you on?" Kinchloe added.

Newkirk scowled. "I will not accept freedom bought on deals with the enemy."

"Ah, Hogan," Klink said excitedly. "It seems that your men do not approve of you giving aid to the enemy. This will not make you a popular man with the prisoners."

"They know that it's good advice," Hogan conceded. "But they will come around." Then, looking at his men, he commanded, "That is an order."

"Bloody officers," Newkirk muttered.

Hogan turned back to Klink. "See, sir, I told you they had no choice."

"Very well. I will get the supplies for the new layer of the fence and you will select a group of prisoners to do the work. Dismissed."

As the four prisoners walked out of the cooler, the first thing Kinchloe noticed was how much warmer it was outside, followed by the looks of shock and surprise that were being sent their way by their fellow POWs. "Sir, Klink wasn't completely wrong. The camp is going to be upset when they hear what you did."

"That will be my problem."

Kinchloe wasn't convinced but he dropped the subject as they reached their hut. After stepping back to allow the others to go first, he entered the barracks and took up a position of standing near the door where he could study the whole room.

"Look who's back," Olsen said in voice that left no doubt that he was not pleased to see them.

Furthermore, Olsen's glare left no doubt that his words were directed at his CO. Kinchloe wondered if he had missed a confrontation between the two men while he had been in the cooler. His suspicion was quickly confirmed by Hogan's next words. "Olsen, my quarters. Now."

Once the two men had disappeared, Anderson asked what the rest of the barracks was thinking. "Can someone tell me what is going on here?"

"I'm still trying to figure it out," LeBeau admitted as he climbed into his bunk.

"But how did you get released?" Bennett pressed.

Newkirk shrugged. "The Guv'nor did it."

"Colonel Hogan has…" Kinchloe hesitated. "A plan."

"You expect me to believe that," Clayworth stated accusingly. "The news is all over camp about how he walked up to the front gate and turned himself in, _after_ escaping."

LeBeau was never one to back down from a confrontation. "You heard right."

And as he nimbly leapt onto his bunk, Newkirk added, "Look, I know he's barmy. But he's got a plan to get us all out of this place. I say we give him a chance. If he fails then we can hang him from the highest yardarm."

* * *

After the door closed behind him, Olsen said with sly grin, "Well, sir, I heard the most interesting gossip at morning roll call."

"Take a seat," Hogan ordered as he found his own.

Olsen was smug as he sat down. "So the escape didn't work out well for you."

"I have my reasons for returning."

"Sounds pretty hypocritical to me, sir."

Hogan's voice went cold. "I didn't call you in here to listen to a lecture, Sergeant. I know you don't approve of my actions and right now, I don't approve of yours either. We both know that I would be fully within my rights to end your career right here and now. But I'm going to go out on a limb and instead offer you a deal that will get me what I need, while letting you do what you want."

Olsen's face flickered with suspicion but he knew he wasn't getting out of this office until Hogan was finished. "I'm listening."

"First I need some honest answers."

Spreading out his arms as if to say 'I'm innocent', Olsen said, "Ask away, sir. I have nothing to hide."

"How do you know German?"

"I didn't want to learn Latin."

At first Hogan wanted to shoot back that this was no answer, but something in Olsen's expression told him that the NCO wasn't joking. "Explain."

"When I was twelve my mother decided that I needed to learn Latin. I disagreed and made my tutor's job so miserable that he quit within the week. I got quite a whipping that day but I figured it was worth it.

"The next morning my mother gave me an ultimatum. Pick a language that I'd like to learn or she would find another Latin tutor. Well, I really didn't want to learn any language, but I really didn't want to learn Latin so I picked the one language that I thought my mother would never agree to: German."

"Your mother called your bluff."

"She was furious. The Germans killed my father in the last war, but I had a German tutor within the week. I thought I was getting back at my mother by being a good pupil and speaking German around the house."

Olsen's story told Hogan a couple of things. The fact that he had private tutors meant that Olsen had come from a family of means and growing up without fatherly guidance made Hogan suspect that the sergeant had been a spoilt child, used to getting his own way – at least most of the time.

"Your mother is a smart woman."

"Once I was captured, I just listened and did my best to mimic their accent until I thought I could fool a native."

"Do the krauts know?"

"No."

That was excellent news as far as Hogan was concerned. He now had knowledge of two fluent speakers of German in camp in addition to himself, and he wouldn't be surprised if long term POWs like Newkirk and LeBeau had picked up a bit of the language as well.

Switching subjects, Hogan asked, "How do you sneak in and out?"

Olsen grinned; he certainly had cockiness to spare. "The guards' routines are predictable. I just had to memorize them. Then over a couple of nights I fixed a section of the wire so it would look normal but I could part it when I needed it to."

"And you've never been missing during a bed check?"

"I told you, sir. Klink's predictable. His surprise bed checks always happen between seven and ten days from the last one. Unless there is brass in camp; then we can have several in one week."

Hogan was impressed. Olsen was clearly intelligent and innovative, and he got a thrill out of aggravating those in authority. If he could harness those traits, give Olsen a reason to respect him, and direct his energy towards a proper target, then the colonel believed that the soldier could become a valuable asset. Olsen was exactly the kind of man he needed on his side to make this operation work. He just needed to grow up a little first.

Decision made, Hogan announced, "I'm going to give you permission to go to town."

"You're giving me permission," Olsen repeated, anger creeping back into this voice.

Hogan's expression hardened. He wanted Olsen's help, but he would lay down the law as much as necessary until the POW learned to respect him. "Yes, Soldier, I'm giving you permission to go outside the wire as long as you do a little job for me. I found a transmitter radio and I want you to sneak it back into camp when you return. It's hidden about a mile from camp along the main road. There is downed spruce tree there. The radio is hidden under a bush growing beneath that tree. You do that for me, and I won't ask any questions about what you do when you're outside the wire."

Olsen was surprised. Whatever he had expected from this meeting, this hadn't been it. "I'll consider it, sir."

Hogan knew that Olsen didn't like him very much. But if his hunches about the POW were right, then he had no doubt he would do the job. So as the sergeant walked away, the American officer called out, "Oh, and you better do the job tonight."

Olsen whirled around. "Why?"

"I'm going to help Klink make the camp more secure tomorrow."

"You're out of your mind!"

"Dismissed, Sergeant."

Olsen stormed back into the main room and declared, "That officer sold us out to Klink. He's advising the krauts on security." Clearly he didn't care that Hogan heard him tell.

Hogan couldn't help it. He laughed. The truth there was, a good man underneath Olsen's rebellious exterior. And if he was honest with himself, he had been a similar man ten years ago when he had once had all the cockiness and arrogance of a young man without the wisdom and the experience he had now.

Hogan smiled. Olsen was going to turn out fine. At least, he hoped so.

* * *

Things were not going well in Barracks Two.

Hogan was being reticent about his plans and as such most of the barracks believed the worst concerning his actions of the past twenty-four hours. And, because he had returned with Hogan, Kinchloe was a persona non grata. Well, even more so than usual. At least this time he had Newkirk and LeBeau to talk to.

Kinchloe suspected that Hogan was waiting for something before making his move. But he was at a loss as to what that was. Officers were like that; a fact that frustrated enlisted men to no end.

Thankfully, the day passed without serious incident and his lumpy mattress felt more comfortable than it ever had since his arrival.

The next morning, after roll call, Hogan helped himself to a mug of coffee and looked expectantly at Olsen. "Well?"

Olsen hesitated for a moment, before leaning over and opening up his trunk. He pulled out something wrapped in a jacket and carried over to the common table where he carefully unwrapped the bundle.

Forgetting for a moment that the barracks was watching, Kinchloe moved swiftly over to the table as he recognized the familiar device. A radio! No, not just any radio. A transmitter radio. A broken transmitter radio.

"Can it be fixed?" Hogan asked as Kinchloe sat down at the table.

"I don't know yet, sir. It looks pretty banged up."

"Not surprised. The Gestapo threw it out of a window."

Kinchloe looked up in shock, but Hogan wasn't joking. He really had gotten that close to a Gestapo raid. Kinchloe didn't know if Hogan was just plan crazy or if he had more guts than the rest of the USAAF put together.

However, there was no denying the fact that it felt good to hold a radio in his hands again. "I'll need more time to be sure, but I can tell you right away that some of these parts will need replacing."

"Hold on, sir," Anderson called out. "You expect Kinchloe to fix that? And then what?"

"Escape. All of us. That's why I came back."

"But you're helping Klink fix some of the problems with security!" Clayworth exclaimed.

"Which will make him overconfident and that will make things easier for us in the long run."

While the rest of the barracks attempted to process Hogan's words, Kinchloe had more practical concerns on his mind. "Colonel, where do you want me to hide this? I'm not going to be able to fix it in a day or two."

After looking carefully around the room, Hogan decided. "The tunnel."

Kinchloe raised an eyebrow. He had heard about the tunnel from Newkirk and LeBeau, but he had no idea what shape it was in.

LeBeau immediately sensed Kinchloe's concern. "Here, let me show you." He started fiddling with Clayworth's mattress and the floor and in a few seconds opened up a man sized hole into the darkness below. "Candle."

Newkirk quickly lit one and handed it down to the him.

Once LeBeau disappeared, Kinchloe followed. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that they had dug out a small room and had managed to get their hands on a few tools as well – Newkirk's handiwork he was sure. The tunnel itself was small, just big enough for a man to crawl through.

"It's not much, but it gives you some room," LeBeau admitted.

Taking once last glance, Kinchloe climbed back up the ladder and gave his report. "If I can get better lighting it will work. A couple of lanterns should do."

Hogan didn't even have to think. "Newkirk."

"I'll put in on the shopping list, sir."

"Good," Hogan said. "Clayworth, I want you to switch bunks with Kinchloe."

"Excuse me, sir!" Clayworth gasped.

Kinchloe twitched nervously; this wasn't good. Clayworth did not look happy and Brown was shooting him daggers from across the room.

Seemingly oblivious to the effect of his words, Hogan explained, "Kinchloe is going to be spending a lot of time down in the tunnel. I doubt you want to be awoken several times in the middle of the night just so he can work."

Hogan's reasoning made it impossible for Clayworth to protest, but it didn't take a mind reader to tell he was livid. Though to tell the truth, Kinchloe wasn't thrilled either. His bunk in the corner had separated him from the rest of the barracks. But it had also granted him a small measure of security. A security that would now be lost.

By agreeing to help Hogan, he had made enemies. Those who were convinced of his inferiority would not take kindly to the demonstrations of his abilities. And whether Hogan realized it or not, by giving him the bunk over the tunnel Kinchloe had been just granted a measure of authority over his barrack mates. He now controlled access to their tunnel.

But he couldn't let fear of what might happen stop him. He had joined the AAF to prove to the whites that he was a capable man. Now he was getting his chance. He couldn't let it slide through his fingers. So silently, Kinchloe gathered up his things and claimed his new bunk.

Clayworth obeyed orders and it did not escape Kinchloe's notice that the man decided to sleep on the lower bunk instead of the one the Negro POW had used.

As the moving arrangements were being carried out, Anderson broke the silence. Turning to Colonel Hogan, he asked curiously, "So you have a plan, sir?"

In the span of thirty-six hours, Hogan had gone from an unwanted annoyance to traitor to respected commanding officer in the eyes of most of his men.

Kinchloe wished he understood how Hogan did it.


End file.
